Morning Star
by Mikanis
Summary: To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n." Paradise Lost, John Milton. Things change...further more, People change, and to know himself, he must first know another. Sequel to Welcome to Wammy. Mature
1. The Long Road to Ruin

_AN_- Hello, and welcome back. This is the sequel to Welcome to Wammy. If you're looking for something serious, for an in depth look at the human mind and how we deal with ourselves and our fears, you're in the right place. Against my better judgement, I think this is gonna be a MelloxMatt story...and I plan to give Concerto a run for its money. In fact...this may be a pairing simply_ because_ I want to outdo Concerto. Some of you don't know what that means, and some of you are ready to kill me, but...the story must be written. I can't help it. -Kani

XXXX

_January 10__th__, 2005_

A young man watches a toddler run across the grass of the yard. The low hills channel a winter wind through the valley, and worried, a mother comes out of the cottage with a heavier coat for her child. As she pulls her daughter's arms through the coat-sleeves, she glances up to notice the blond stranger. A moment passes without recognition, and the young man turns without a word of greeting, shifting the bag on his shoulder as he heads down the road. Disconcerted, his older sister picks her child up and takes her in, away from the Italian winter and familiar strangers.

XXXX

_April 7__th__, 2005 _

A blond in leather sits at a bar next to an elderly gentleman, resting his chin dejectedly upon his arms as he waits to be noticed. The old man's laughter dies as he turns from his companion and looks at the mop of dirty yellow hair and the depressed expression that has taken up residency at his left. A feather of pity comes to his eyes, and he offers to buy the kid a drink. The blond glances up at him and then gravely nods, with thanks. The shot comes, and the man turns back to his companion, missing the smirk of triumph that breaks the mask of depression. He knocks it back, and sputters, his cheeks aflame, his eye wide, and earns a laugh from both men. It is the first of many more that night, and the beginning of an uneasy camaraderie.

A month later, the young man is taken under the wing of the gentleman, and introduced to the 'family.'

XXXX

_May 1__st__, 2005_

The young man reaches Los Angeles, a new pistol at his hip, and a mission in his mind. It doesn't take long to scour the city, learn its names and the language. The Family is strong here, and after learning the city, he announces his arrival to the Cousin. With two apartments to his name, a weekly allowance from an old friend being split into three accounts, and a rough idea of his standing, he feels himself ready. He asks to see the Dom.

Within two weeks, half the Family is dead, lost to Kira. The young man returns to the Dom again, this time with a plan of righteous fury, and a solid arrangement as two men of the business. It doesn't matter if he accepts or not, because the Kid has already bought half the mafia, tucked them nicely into his pocket.

He agrees, and the deal eases into place, working alongside each other.

Within a month, the Dom lies dead in an alley, and the young man names his successor, refusing to take the mantle himself. With criminals on the internet, even the underground is too public. His pieces in place, he steps back, retreating to watch the fall out as the mafia regains its footing after the loss of its Father. Deals are made and broken, allies and enemies forged anew, until the system is ready, and Family stands again, united.

XXXX

_March 5__th,__ 2009_

Two more Doms rise and fall, and finally, they have chosen one stupid enough to be usable. Kira and L wage an all-out war with the media, but as L's voice weakens, Kira's support only grows. The young man sits in his apartment, scowling at the feeble reports that anyone who knew L personally would laugh at. There isn't time for laughter, however; things are moving. He calls his friend, the gentleman in New York, and lets him know that he has a favor…a big favor, and some cash to help with it. The retired pilot smiles into the phone, remembering a drunken kid in leather grinning up at him from the barstool, and agrees without hesitation.

Things move.

XXXX

_March 12__th__, 2009_

Mello stands in an abandoned government base in the California desert, near the Nevada state line. Walking through the long facility once, he finds himself satisfied, and returns to his bike, phoning his friend in New York with good news and a set of coordinates.

The Dom calls later, and the Family has been successfully narrowed. A contact has been made in the FBI, with information relating to Kira. The niece of a lesser cousin, from a few miles south of White Valley, is an officer who has just been assigned to a special task force, created specifically to counter the mass-murderer.

It brings a smile to his lips. Opposite sides of the board, and yet playing with the same color pieces…he hasn't played chess in years, and with a few final adjustments, the game will resume its normal pace.


	2. Strangers

Mello slid the key card from his pocket, opened the door to his apartment, and was immediately hit with the smell of cigarettes. A quick glance down revealed that his trip wire, a single thread from the doorstop to a nail in the runner board, had been broken. Company then. He pulled his pistol from the small of his back and flipped the light on. Nothing in the main room and from there he went to the kitchen.

The pistol came up slowly, trained with a steady hand at the back of the intruder's head.

"Get up."

The person froze, and slid his hands out across the table slowly. A tense moment passed, but the man made no move to actually rise from his chair. Mello moved no closer, taking in the computer on his table without blinking.

"Who are you?"

"…Joy found you. Home sends a gift, and Love wishes you well in your endeavors."

The message rocked through his bones, but nothing more than a slight narrowing of the eyes betrayed him. The man turned to face him, and Mello stared as everything he'd left behind flooded his memory. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Matt's haunted eyes didn't linger on his for long before he motioned him over. Mello came without question to look at the message on the screen.

_You've been bugged, man. Not sure by who, but it's fairly amateur…just audio. Let's take this outside._

His face remained impassive, but Matt's eyes widened when he brought the gun to bear on him again. He was far too close… and just knowing that he'd been here, after years of his retreat going undisturbed, pissed Mello off to no end. It kept him from locking up with the shock of it. He used the anger for strength and guided Matt out of his chair with sheer force when he resisted, the barrel digging into his chin. He went easily enough after that, and Mello led him straight out the door again. They didn't speak, and it seemed to take forever for the lock to engage. He took off down the stairs without another word, a muscle going at his temple and his fist flexing around the pistol's grip.

"Mello?"

The voice…oh god,_that_ voice, that was the last thing he needed right now. He didn't turn, didn't stop; just continued down the street. The sound of footsteps behind him drove the jagged shards of paranoia into his skull, but years of working with Mafia taught him to keep his course. He knew who was behind him, after all, and knew him very well. The voice, both blessed and damned, didn't come again, and that was fine with him. He didn't want to talk to him, didn't want him here…didn't he know how things had changed?

The secondary apartment building loomed over the others, just a few blocks from his other one. By the time they reached it, Mello had calmed ever so slightly, and he waited for Matt to catch up before ascending the stairs. His pistol remained out though. He didn't know how much Matt had changed, but the difference in Mello himself was palpable.

Matt followed silently, up the metal staircase and to a slightly larger apartment, and Mello thanked God for the small graces. Another key came out, and when they entered, the smell of dust and stale air hung thick in the entryway. The light came on, and promptly blew from the sudden burst of energy after years of disuse. Mello merely grunted in irritation and clicked the lamp on instead. It wasn't cold, but he knew Matt shivered anyway…anything lower than seventy-five was too low for his taste. He was amazed, and furious, to turn and find that the hacker had pulled his sleeves over his hands…he'd _known_ he would do that. He'd just _known_, and it was so God damned annoying to realize that he still knew something about this person…that some things hadn't changed. It made him spiteful, to know that Matt of all people, would be so perfect that he didn't have to change to get through life…and while he realized that to be an exaggeration, it didn't fucking help…not at all.

Mello was trying his best to keep his temper, but it was a losing battle. He forced himself to put the gun down on the coffee table before he shot something…anything. He shrugged out his short coat and threw it over the couch. "What are you doing here?"

Matt jumped at the sound of his voice, his eyes coming back to rest on his shoulders. "I'm…the gift, I guess. Wammy tried to send you the skeleton file on Kira, but they couldn't track you down."

"I thought I told you in Zurich not to come after me."

"I didn't listen to you the night you left, and so I didn't listen then either. I lost you after Italy, and again from New York, but you've been making some noise since then." Matt shrugged. "It was easy after that…"

"How much noise?"

"I just knew what to look for."

"Good. You can leave now."

"…It's been awhile." Matt shifted by the door, unsure of whether to actually go or not. Mello made it easy for him, snatching his pistol up and staring him down.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Look…I just want to help you out…" Matt stiffened as the gun returned, but it was more disconcerting to see how natural it looked in Mello's hand.

"That's all you've ever done, Matt. I don't need you. Get out."

"Mello listen…."

"No." Mello's tone cut him off for just a second, but then Matt's own irritation surfaced.

"Why not? I could run circles around that piece of shit hacker you've got right now, and you fucking know it. Hell, I could give him my laptop, and he wouldn't know how to turn the damn thing on!"

"What part of this isn't getting through to you? I left you at Wammy's, and you should have fucking stayed there."

"Like a good dog? What the fuck is your problem?"

"This conversation was over about three minutes ago, Matt. Get, out." Mello's grip tightened slightly on his gun. Matt stared at him, looking him over once as though making a decision.

"I can't."

"I don't need you, Matt, I've said this…."

"I never said you did. I just…."

Mello's head tilted to the side slightly, his eyes narrowing further. "What is it?"

Matt said nothing and pulled a sleeve up, exposing his forearm. The needle tracks, though a common sight among the lowlifes the Family dealt with, stunned him on Matt's pale skin. So the hacker had changed…he'd trashed what was left of his morals and gotten himself hooked on something dangerous. Mello didn't mess with drugs, but it was common fact that the ones requiring needles were serious shit. This wasn't his fault…it couldn't be his fault, because he'd fucking left before he could drag Matt down with him. Matt had a chance, after all. His eyes met Matt's again, and the greens widened slightly at his expression.

"What do you want? My help? I can't _fix_ that, Matt." Mello growled, finally angry. "What did you expect…to show up and get a free ride, because you have a problem?"

"No…."

Mello glared.

"…Yes."

"Matt, you're fucking pathetic. You call that growing up?"

"…That coming from the man threatening to shoot his childhood buddy because he's a little paranoid…."

"Don't fucking start with me." Mello pulled the hammer back, and the threat became very real. Mello's temper had been infamous in the orphanage, but life in the real world had done nothing to calm him. He would shoot Matt, not to kill, but to make his point. "I don't need you or you problems, so I'm telling you again. Get out."

"Are you gonna shoot me Mello?" Matt tried to sneer, and something snapped in Mello's mind. He'd seen that expression far too many times from someone else, someone unfit to lick Matt's shoes. The wood next to Matt's head exploded in a rain of splinters, and he watched the hacker freeze in shock. It was extremely gratifying. Smoke curled from the barrel of the pistol, and Matt seemed to have trouble breathing for a second.

"…Christ…."

"Yes. I will." Mello stated simply, answering his previous retort, and he knew from the fear in Matt's eyes that he believed him. A small flash of uneasiness hit him, seeing that look on…but no, that didn't matter. Matt found his voice a second later, talking in a quiet, almost pleading tone.

"Mello…I'll just come back…."

"Are you asking me to shoot you, Matt? I mean really, you're trying my patience."

"…When…when you find someone you connect with…." Mello froze, his mind's eye going back to a dorm room, in an orphanage….

"Someone who makes everything make sense…." Matt continued, closing his eyes and waiting for the next shot. "…You don't let them go."

There was a tense moment as they both waited, neither sure for what. The hacker leaned against the door for support, trying to keep himself from shaking. This was not what he'd expected, not in the least. He was dead…he was fucking dead. Matt knew that any second, the trigger would click and engage, and that'd be the end of it. Mello had simply changed too much…there was nothing left of the boy he once knew, and it was a mistake that would cost him his life. Seconds ticked by, and Matt found himself wondering if there was a point in saying his prayers.

The shot never came. He opened his eyes to find Mello still staring at him coldly, but the pistol had lowered to the floor. His heart still raced, and as he straightened again, splinters and wood dust fell from his hair, a reminder that Mello was serious.

"Lock the fucking door."

With that, Mello turned on heel and stalked to a room down the short hall, slamming the door after himself. Matt groped blindly behind for the doorknob and clicked it into place before sliding down the wood and burying his face in his knees. Shit…shit shit shit, he'd thought he was dead. He'd _known_ he was dead.

Fear left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, and he found himself even less sure of his future now than he had been before.

"Christ…"

XXXX

Matt shut the door behind them again a few hours later and shivered at the chunk of wood missing. Mello had taken a shower, and then they trekked back to his other apartment to get Matt's things. They hadn't spoken. Shifting his bag on his shoulder, he found himself again standing awkwardly in the hallway, unsure of whether to follow the stranger walking away or not.

"Get over here."

There was his answer, then. He followed, glancing around, and suddenly realized that Mello still didn't smoke. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked for a place to put it out. Mello turned to eye him, and then just shook his head.

"Just don't worry about it…I'm usually only here to crash anyway."

"…Alright then." Matt, not one to waste his smokes, put it back in his mouth and shivered again, rubbing his arms. Mello had always liked it cold for some reason, he remembered. Matt himself had to be in a mood for it…

Mello hadn't realized how much he missed the smell of cigarettes. The smoke traveled easily in the cold air, and he found himself not caring. "This is the bathroom, that's the bedroom. You either sleep when I'm not here, or you take the couch. If you want to shower, do it while I'm gone. When did you last eat?"

"…This morning."

Mello nodded. "There are leftovers from dinner in the fridge, you can have those…"

Matt set his bag down by the couch, glancing into the kitchen. Mello kept talking while he strolled through the apartment. "The other room is where I keep my guns, and if I catch you in there, I'll kill you. That simple enough?"

"Yeah."

Mello paused before explaining further. "…I have explosives in there. Touchy chemicals and the like. You trip up and hit a bottle too hard, I wouldn't have to shoot you…understand?"

"Yeah, I get it. No touchy de Bottles…."

Mello paused at that, but decided to continue any way. "What are you on?"

Matt didn't have to ask for clarification, but he didn't drop his eyes in shame. That, just as everything else in his life, had been a decision, and he'd gotten mixed results from it. Some of his best programs had come from his highs, but cliché as that was, he didn't think Mello would believe him. Instead of answering, he knelt by his bag and pulled a small vial of clear liquid from the side pouch. Mello walked over and snatched it from him, leaning on the couch as he read the label.

"Wammy gave you morphine?"

"…Kind of. There's a deal you can make with them…a certain amount of your allowance for medical supplies…it's a 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy'."

Mello stared hard at him for a moment, then gave a humorless chuckle. "Wish I'd known that…."

"Yeah…I wrecked my bike in Memphis trying to get a lead on you…messed my knee up pretty bad. You left before Wammy could define the severance package to you, so there were a few things you missed out on."

"I got shot a year or so ago…put a nice hole in my back. Give it to me." Mello held out his hand, still scanning the label. Matt hesitated, but a sharp glance from those cold eyes sent him back to the bag for the other four bottles. Mello considered them carefully. "How much are you on?"

"…I don't know…."

"Meaning enough to kill you." Mello stood and headed into the kitchen, opening a cabinet. "They stay here, and you're on half ration until I say otherwise."

"Half?" Matt's eyes got a little wide at that, the manic desperation sparking in his chest at the thought of how little that was.

"Yes. The first time I come back and you've taken more than that, I'm pouring it down the sink, are we clear?"

"…Fuck you man."

"Good. Now, are you in contact with Near?"

"No…that message was relay from Roger. I don't know where he's at."

"Good." Mello closed the cabinet and turned to give him a level look. Matt shrunk a bit under those eyes…Mello had never been cold before…lost perhaps, distant, but never cold. This would take some getting used to. Of course, having heard the stories about what his companion had been doing over the years, Matt wasn't all that surprised.

Mello watched him drop his eyes, and wondered to himself again why he was letting him stay. He didn't need this, the distraction, the reminder of his shortcomings, the burden of having a roommate again…any of it.

"Don't leave. You better be here when I get back, and you better be sober enough to carry on a conversation."

"You're leaving?"

Mello nodded.

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

"…Do you have cable?"

"No." Mello reached into the fridge and pulled out the Styrofoam box of food, setting it on the table. Matt felt his mouth water, his world narrowing down to that one container, and he caught himself staring too late. The blond narrowed his eyes. "You lied to me. When did you last eat?"

"I told you, this morning."

"Fine…have it your way." Mello turned around and ripped the box in half over the sink with one fluid motion. The act was done with a ferocity that was not reflected in his eyes or demeanor, and it scared the hell out of him. Rice and one or two untouched tacos fell into the metal basin and before Matt could move or protest, the water was on. He watched as the meal was destroyed, his hunger pains worse now that he could see and smell it. Mello shut the water off and strolled past him without a second glance, trashing the box on his way out. "You lie to me, you can eat that. I don't play games, Matt."

"Mello…."

"Yes?"

"About two days or so…" Matt finished lamely, still staring at the sink and the ruined food. "Since I got to L.A…"

"And before that?"

"…Maybe four days…I don't know…The morphine takes the edge off."

Mello paused by the couch, considering the hacker's back as he still stared dejectedly into the kitchen. "I guess I'll bring you something later."

"Okay." Matt sighed in relief and tore his eyes from the sink, turning to look into the living room. "I'm…really tired. You gonna be gone long enough for me to sleep?"

"Should be…at least that long," Mello replied, shrugging back into his coat. The state Matt was in was pathetic, he had to admit, but he still didn't understand what he was doing here…why he'd come to Mello instead of going back to Wammy. Mello couldn't help him get back on his feet. "Use one of the cups in the cabinet for an ashtray. I'll be back eventually."

"Yeah…okay."


	3. Game

He didn't know how long he'd been standing in the doorway, but the fact that he was no longer irritated enough to wake the hacker was annoying in and of itself. When he'd first returned to the apartment, he'd been amazed at the sheer amount of mess that had come from the hacker's backpack. Mello knew its source simply because the apartment was nearly bare before he'd arrived last night.

He'd tripped over wires the second he cleared the hallway and just stared. The army bag had to have contained at least three miles of wires and cords, as well as the hacker's system. Around twenty spiral-bound notebooks lay scattered around the floor, and loose papers lay in semi-neat stacks over every available surface. Matt himself was no where to be seen.

After a moment of careful maneuvering, Mello cleared the entrance hallway and made it to the back hall. The bathroom light was on, his shower had been used, and he turned around to find Matt in his bed. It was there that Mello still lingered, wondering just how drunk he actually was.

In the ten minutes it took him to cross twenty feet of floor, it'd taken him maybe thirty seconds to become irritated. From there it had been a downward slide to drunken anger as his boots tangled in wires, tripping and stumbling his way to the couch. By the time he cleared all of it, he found himself hoping he'd damaged the damn things. He'd paused at the couch and promptly knocked a stack of papers to floor. The thought of shaking the hacker awake at…Christ, it must have been four, and making him clean it up was highly appealing.

However, once he made it to the door, he was afraid to touch him. His anger died on his lips, fell like cold steel in his blood, until he could do little but stare. It left him with a clarity that he'd gotten drunk to avoid. Matt lay sprawled across his bed as though it were his own, his wet hair leaving a damp spot on Mello's pillow. The hacker was dressed rather haphazardly, as though just to make sure it was done before he passed out.

Mello didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but something kept him from waking Matt…and he doubted it was the whiskey. Mello hadn't even taken his coat off yet, and the rollercoaster this evening had been already was not leaving much to be desired…about the only end of the scale he hadn't hit tonight was the happy one.

Mello had long ago discovered intimacy, in the years that he'd been in America. He'd lost his virginity to a hooker in New York, but after that night, all physical contact with other people had been minimal. Mello knew he was attractive, and whenever he was in the mood for sex, there was usually a woman willing. While some men had been available too, Mello never took up his first choice.

So the fact that he wanted Matt, while it wasn't exactly surprising, still managed to shock the hell out him. Looking at the hacker, lying there on _his_ bed, so fresh from the shower that Mello could still smell the water in the air, he remembered what it meant to _want_ someone. He dimly remembered real desire, scattered thoughts and dreams from times long gone, back when he was a boy and finally became aware of himself…back when he was emotionally crippled. He remembered what it meant to crave something so far out of his reach that even God himself decreed it blasphemous.

That was years ago, when he still believed that God gave a damn. He recognized himself as slightly jaded now, or perhaps more mature about the entire matter. After his first few murders, liking boys began to pale on his list of sins…it wasn't quite as damning as it had seemed when he was at Wammy. Standing over a man in an alleyway, watching him bleed out like a stuck pig while clutching at his boots and begging for his life…and letting him bleed instead of a mercy shot to end it quickly…_that_ was sin. He knew now that God would not strike him down where he stood, that there was no righteous fury or lightening to be had. Killing a person had opened his eyes somewhat, and from then on, life had been fair game. He was fairly sure that he was racking up quite a tab by now, but he didn't plan on dying anytime soon. After the shit that the bastard had put him through, Mello knew God would at least let him get Kira out of the way before he called him out on the debt…he had to.

So when he paused, half drunk, and noticed that Matt had left his belt undone, and was missing a glove, he hardly blinked. What startled him was the fact that it had been years since he'd last seen him, and somehow the hacker still got into his head at the blink of an eye.

He got so far into it, in fact, that Mello contemplated not waking him at all, and just crawling into bed with him. It would be so much easier to kick his boots off, turn him on his side and just pull him close. He wouldn't even realize it until he woke, and then Mello could enjoy the awkward conversation that would follow that. The shock value would make it hilarious, if nothing else.

He smirked to himself at the thought. It was tempting, very tempting, to just bury his face in the hacker's shoulder and ignore whatever followed.

The fact that it was Matt stopped him. It scared him, as well.

A long time ago, when they were young, Matt had called it a matter of respect. He said it was the reason that he could deal with Mello afterwards, because Mello respected the fact that he was straight. While that was a very long time ago, Mello was surprised to find that he still did. The respect lingered, and it made him wonder just how much further Matt was going to fuck with his head. After the shit he'd been through, why was he still playing by the rules when it came to _him_? A better question, would he continue?

Staring at the red hair, a few shades darker with water, he dimly remembered asking himself that question before. How long would he respect Matt?

And after everything that he'd become, why was Matt even an issue?

He still wondered why he'd put the gun down. So Matt had quoted something sappy that he'd once said; it's not like either of them still believed it. How could they, after living life away from Wammy? Shit made sense to children, but when things got complicated, even the soundest logic would break. It wasn't a matter of truth, just circumstance.

He should have shot him. Maybe not to kill, but at least to pain him…maybe in the shin, to make him limp for the rest of his life. If he'd lowered the pistol in any other situation, had it been anyone, anywhere near the Family, he'd have lost standing. It wouldn't have had an immediate effect, but once the crack was in place, the rest of the glass had no choice but to buckle under the strain. People don't fear mercy, they fear efficient misery.

Mello walked a fine line, and he knew it.

He dimly noticed that the drawer of his nightstand had been opened, and he wondered what Matt had been looking for. He let himself look for another moment before he finally became irritated with his wandering imagination. He needed to sleep; he only had four hours before he had to get up again.

"Hey…."

Matt jumped violently, and Mello's eyebrow rose. He hadn't raised his voice at all, talking as though Matt were awake to hear him, and the response was hardly warranted. So Matt didn't sleep as easily as he used to…Mello found that actually surprising. Before, Mello could throw things at him, and the fool would sleep on as though drugged. The hacker sat up on his elbows, glancing around in a panic before spotting him in the door. Mello said nothing, merely watching as he groaned and sunk back onto the bed…

"Fuck man…scared the shit out of me…."

"I have that effect on people. There's food on the couch." He grimaced as Matt sat up again and ran a hand through his damp hair. "And use a towel next time."

"Food?"

"Yes. On the couch…if you can even get to it. What is all that shit, anyway?"

"…Had to narrow my system…for travel." Matt slid to the edge of the bed and stood up, stretching. Mello shrugged out of his coat and moved past him to the night stand. The pistol came out, and he unloaded all but two shots before stashing it in the empty drawer Matt had looked in.

"I'll go pick it up I guess…."

"Just try to contain it to the individual rooms. There's duct tape in the drawer next to the fridge…use it to tape your wires down," Mello grunted, slipping his rosary off and lying that next to the lamp. He turned to face the hacker as he pulled his gloves off. Matt hadn't moved, and Mello narrowed his eyes suspiciously, dragging his hanging head up by the chin to peer into his eyes. "Are you stoned?"

"No…just tired." Matt tried to smile, and Mello just shoved him off. Junkies disgusted him. He tossed his gloves to the nightstand and unzipped his vest. Matt backed to the doorway, perhaps surprised that Mello was actually shedding clothing in his presence. Mello didn't care.

And if he didn't fucking leave, he was going to get an eyeful.

He sat down and unzipped his boots.

"Mello…is that where you got shot?"

Mello paused, realizing that his left shoulder was bared, and facing Matt's direction. He nodded, his boot thudding to the floor. "Yeah…spring of 2007."

"And that one there? The long one?" Mello glanced down at the jagged line that started at his right side and curved down over his stomach.

"…Took a knife across the ribs last year." The other boot fell, and he stood, his hands going to his belt. Matt finally seemed to realize that he was hardly shy anymore, and backed out.

"Food…on the couch…okay then." He shut the door behind himself, and Mello just sighed. He pulled the belt off and left his pants on, before falling face first onto the bed. His face smacked the damp pillow and he twitched in irritation. The scent of his own shampoo hit him, and underlying that, something cloying…not quite cigarette smoke, though reminiscent of it.

Fuck, his pillow smelled like Matt.

He sat up and flipped it over, wondering just how big of a mistake this really was.

XXXX

Mello got up four and a half hours later and stumbled to the bathroom to scrub the taste of stale whiskey and chocolate from his mouth. He noticed from the corner of his eye that the chaos in the living room had been somewhat tidied. After five minutes of faithfully abusing his mouth with the toothbrush, he headed into the living area of the small apartment. The computers were stationed by one end of the couch, and the main laptop was on his dining room table. A portable hard-drive sat next to the sofa on the floor, and all corresponding wires were in the process of being taped into three neat lines between the two open areas. Matt sat barefoot on the floor, duct tape in hand. He glanced up as Mello passed him.

"Morning."

"Yeah…"

"You look like shit."

"Part of the job description. You eat?"

"…Yeah…thanks." Mello waved it off and disappeared into the kitchen area. He returned with a glass of milk and a chocolate bar and took a seat at the table, watching Matt inch his way across the floor with the table, securing his wires. Chocolate was his pre-emptive strike against a hangover. The laptop made a beeping sound, and Matt smirked suddenly.

Mello frowned. "What are you doing?"

"…Playing with your hacker."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I've gotten into his system, and every time that thing chirps like that, his computer randomly freezes."

"Matt…don't fuck with my work."

"I'm just having fun…"

"Stop."

The hacker rolled his eyes and got up stiffly, pulling his chair around and himself into it as he cancelled the program. He frowned. "May I ask a question?" 

"No."

"…Why are you trying to steal a missile?"

"…Because I need it."

"Mello, what in the _hell_ do you-"

"Matt." His tone cut him off, and Mello cracked his chocolate in irritation after, still staring coldly at him. The hacker went quiet for a minute, but decided to drop it and pulled his bag up from beside the chair. He pulled a small black case from the bottom and unzipped it. The sound of clinking glass chimed from the case.

Mello downed the last of his milk and glared at him, his already foul morning mood going to hell in a lovely spiral fashion. "What is that?"

Matt's hands paused for a moment before looking at him carefully. "…My syringe case. I need my shot."

"You know where it's at." Mello growled, running a hand through his hair as he wondered why he'd bothered to get out of bed.

"Yeah."

"… And I want to watch you take it." He added as an afterthought, still trying to sink into the nothingness behind his eyes to escape his headache.

"…Fine." Matt pulled himself up, and Mello's tired eyes were pulled open against his will by the odd sounding footsteps. The hacker half-dragged his left leg, limping his way to the kitchen.

Matt merely grimaced and leaned on the counter before opening the cabinet. He glanced back and caught Mello still staring at the offending limb. It made him pause. He'd gotten that look from dozens, hundreds of people even, and it had always just rolled off his shoulder…if he didn't use it to con free cigarettes out of them. Coming from Mello, that stare that wasn't quite pity, a little more than disgust…it bothered him. Coming from Mello it made him feel weak, made him feel as though he had to defend himself. That look from Mello made him feel like a cripple for the first time since he laid the Honda down coming out of Memphis. "…I told you man, I fucked my knee up. That last shot wore off about two hours ago."

Mello got up and put his glass in the sink, shaking his head. He didn't feel like listening to Matt's explanations…his mood was bad enough already.

"How much to do you take?"

"…Just enough for the pain, and then some for kicks, I guess." Matt measured out his dose and turned to show it to Mello.

After a moment of peering at the small glass numbers, Mello nodded to himself. "Drop another 20ml. Where do you take it at?"

Matt sighed…that was hardly enough to make his knee quite aching…the buzz would only last a couple of hours. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and checked his arm... "Well…usually in the wrist, just below the thumb. I only do the arm when I'm in a hurry...the scars just mean that I rushed it, you know?"

Mello ignored him, still. "Show me."

"Why?"

"So I'll know what to look for."

"You don't trust me…" Matt started, but then sighed. "No, never mind…I don't trust me either."

Mello watched him work his wrist with a thumb until a vein became visible. A small shiver ran down his spine to see the needle glide into the hacker's wrist…his own were incredibly sensitive. The hacker pulled the needle out quickly, and leaned back on the counter. Mello watched the drug take effect…the slight tremble in the bad knee stopped first, and then with a soft inhale, a small grin began on Matt's face. Mello pulled his chin up to peer into his eyes, and they dilated strangely, large and darker than usual. His mouth went dry, and he shoved the hacker toward the table. "Walk."

"Easy man, I'm not all the way there yet." Matt stumbled a bit at first, but when he took a step on his bad leg now, it barely buckled. He knew that it still hurt, hurt like a bitch, but he couldn't feel it anymore, so he ignored it. It'd likely gotten worse because of his refusal to get proper treatment, but he was getting along fine without it. He stumbled back to his computer and took his seat as Mello came to lean in the doorway.

"You boil the syringe?"

"When I can…if not I just soak it in peroxide for a few minutes…"

"Why don't-" The sound of the alarm on Matt's comp cut him off.

Matt leaned forward, peering at his screen dully. "…The hell?"

"What is it?"

"The fair-warning program…it's my system, not his and…aw, damn it…." Matt's eyes got wide and his hands came up to type furiously. "He's just worked the Pentagon, and his system isn't catching the security."

"Fuck…what's up?" Mello came to stand behind him, scowling at the screen.

"He's set off two minor alarms, if he breaks one more, the system will counter-hack and trace…"

"How minor?"

"Not at all, really. They like to know who's trying to get into their shit." He peered at the screen, wishing like hell he'd waited ten seconds on the dope…it was great for programming but not for performance. The numbers went weird for a moment as the other hacker initiated a badly coded program.

"What is he doing….Fuck, what is he-" Matt pulled his goggles down, a flash of irritation worming its way past the drug as the anonymous hacker floundered around the Pentagon's files like a dying fish. "That's called a trip-gate you idiot…"

"Matt, talk to me." Mello was looking at the same screen Matt was, but all he could see were four or five scrolling texts and some numerical codes.

Matt pointed to one line of moving code. "There…they're hacking him…what SGF is he running again?"

"_English_ Matt!"

"Standard Guard Functionary, I wasn't paying attention when I hacked him earlier, sorry… It's what he's got protecting his sys..." Matt trailed off and shook his head, laughing sarcastically, "Never mind, apparently it wasn't good enough."

"Shut him down."

"What?"

"Shut him _down_, Matt! Don't cover him, just shut his ass _down_!" The hacker stared at him strangely for a brief three seconds before attacking his keyboard, and Mello wasn't sure if it was surprise or the morphine. The inability to distinguish the two pissed him off further. Four key-strokes, however, and the signal faded. Mello took a deep breath, his fist gripping the back of Matt's chair so hard, his knuckles paled. He took another to clear his mind, and realized that his headache had faded just as it came crashing back. He fucking hated adrenaline rushes. "How far?"

"Oh…I'd say they narrowed it to the county at least…They likely won't be looking for him." Matt sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Let him think it was the Pentagon…you can't get involved in this."

Matt surprised him by laughing. "I pretty much am. He can't do this, Mello…he's just not good enough."

"I know that."

"No, I don't think you do, man…the guy was searching through departmental maintenance…the one time he did hit the missile codes, he immediately botched it by running an interference line where it wasn't needed, thus drawing attention to himself." Matt picked his cigarette up from the ashtray and lit the partial, staring at his match. "He's either been lying to himself about how good he is, or he's been…"

Mello waited, but Matt had apparently lost his train of thought, fixated by the small fire. He fucking hated junkies…he needed Matt thinking, not…Fuck, no he didn't _need_ Matt for anything. Matt was just convenient. He shook him.

Matt blinked and realized he'd dropped off. He blew the match out, flushing slightly. "Ah…sorry. He's either been lying to himself or trying to get some kind of prestige with you."

Mello brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose, frustrated. "I hate it when they do that…just cover him. Don't make any moves unless I tell you otherwise; they can't know you exist."

"The Pentagon?"

"Any of them." He ran a hand through his hair again, and straightened, his eyes wandering over the thread-bare little apartment as he thought. "Shit…he almost fucked me over…"

"Mello… I wanna help…"

Matt glanced up at him briefly as he eased the other hacker's locked system out of the Pentagon mainframe, but Mello was staring off into space. It was a look he once associated with Mello's strange little mental sin-scale…when he couldn't decide if something was sacrilegious enough to warrant prayer-time. It made him grin to remember it. He didn't get a response right away, but that was fine. Really at this point, Mello could probably shoot him and he'd be fine. He was feeling pretty good right now, immature would-be hackers aside. They made him look bad. Morphine was a beautiful thing, however, and he had trouble gripping his irritation… he dimly recalled an unfinished program in the depths of his bag. That could be fun…

"It's not that simple." Matt rolled his eyes at that, because Mello seriously over-thought shit sometimes.

"What's not simple? You want something, and I can get it." Matt chuckled pulling his goggles off and rubbing his eyes. "Well…I can open the doors at least. You got enough muscle to haul it out?"

"There's more to it than just stealing the missile Matt."

"Yeah, I know, I know… I just…." Matt paused suddenly, and sighed. "You know what…never mind, man…we'll talk about it when I'm sober."

He glanced back again and froze at the hard look in Mello's eyes.

"I don't have years to waste, Matt."

That insult penetrated Matt's happy little cloud, and for the first time since the wreck, he found himself snapping while under the influence. "I said sober, not clean."

"There's no fucking difference."

"Mello, that's taking it too far."

"Really?" Mello held his eyes, his mind still half gone with his other problems. "Tell me…what else are you doing, Matt? Maybe that should be your next project…"

Matt felt an inane fear at the very thought, and he turned back to his computer, refusing to be weak about it…at least in front of Mello. "It was my decision."

"No, Matt…putting a barrel to Giuseppe Starling's forehead and spraying the wall with him…that was a _real_ decision. Your little addiction was nothing more than a passing fancy that you couldn't put down."

Again, Matt found himself wondering why all of this hurt more coming from Mello than it had Roger…

"And you came here expecting help, whether you'll admit it or not."

"Mello…shut the fuck up. Have I asked for your help?"

"No, but you're trying my patience."

"Then let me fucking help you! It's not like I'm asking for a free ride, I can work with you. You know that, man, we grew up wor-"

"No." Mello cut him off. "We didn't Matt. We didn't 'grow up' together. You have no fucking clue who I am now, what I'm doing. We didn't 'grow up', until we left Wammy…and we didn't leave together. You followed me. How's that for growing up? You've been following me for years. How the fuck is that _growing up_?"

"You're missing the point."

"No, I'm not. The point, Matt, is that you still have no fucking clue what to do with your life…and whether you'll admit it or not, you came here hoping that I'd make it a little easier for you."

"Was I wrong?" Matt's voice was quiet, and Mello knew that he'd upset him. "So you've used people…killed for whatever reasons you had…what's the difference? Why not me? Is there a reason you don't want me involved, while you're willing to risk your entire operation on a second-rate thug playing the big games? Am I so different?"

Was he?

The thought shut Mello down again, his anger dying like a doused flame to leave him cold. It was a question Mello didn't want to answer. Why not Matt? "Do you even know what you're getting into?"

"No, Mello, I don't…But there are five bottles in that cabinet that say I won't give a fuck in the morning."

"Morphine won't fix your problems, Matt."

"I don't expect it to, and what you're not getting is that they're MINE, Mello." The hacker turned to face him, and the hard expression on his face was one that Mello had rarely seen, even when they were children. "I'm not asking for much…I'm bored as hell, and I have no life outside of this work…this system. It's all that's kept me going, and I'm fucking good at it. It's my life. You want to be the best at what you do, and you have competition…I never did. I'm the best Wammy has to offer in my field, and you _know_ what that means. What do you want? You gonna pay me, Mello? Would that ease your pride a little?"

"You really want to get involved with this?"

"I _am_ involved. I should have let dipshit trip the system…maybe then you'd understand what it means to play _my_ game. You seem to think that this is a matter of whose hacking is better, and it's not. Common sense is everything, and it's not enough to just get in…you gotta know what you're doing. Fumbling through janitorial files won't cut it. It's like picking up a gun. Anyone can pull a trigger, Mello, but only half of us will actually hit our target…much less where we were aiming." Matt turned back to his screen, frowning at the text and numbers. "This isn't Wammy…it's not a hobby anymore. This isn't some safe, contained system that I'm having fun picking the lock on…this is a government. Governments don't play, and they can and will kill me when I'm caught. I'm too good, and we both know it. Skill is a threat these days, and I'm definitely not gonna work for them…that leaves life imprisonment or death. Need I remind you that you're not the only genius present?"

Matt turned to peer at him now. "In fact, in the ten minutes that this other program has been running, I've profiled half of the people you work with…just from dipshit's system. You run the Mafia. Near's working the government. Me? I'm the internet. So no, Mello…I don't know what the fuck I'll be doing, what kind of shit I'm gonna get into working with you…but it's something at least. Something to fill my time."

"Matt…I really don't think you comprehend what you're agreeing to."

"You want me invisible? I can work invisible…But don't ever underestimate me, Mello. You don't know who I am either."

Mello watched as Matt stood up from his desk and shut the laptop cover without shutting it down. The hacker pulled his goggles off and set them on top of it.

"You can't back out of this, Matt." He remarked, crossing his arms.

Matt merely called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall to shower, trying to calm down again. "I can handle it."

Handle what? Murder? Not likely, and as Mello stared at the back of his head until it disappeared…he decided he really didn't care. Matt was right…they weren't children anymore, and who knew? Maybe Matt would surprise him. Maybe he would adjust as quickly as Mello had.

And if he couldn't handle it? What would Mello do when Matt broke down?

Absolutely nothing. He didn't owe the hacker anything, and maybe a shock of reality was what Matt needed. There was a difference between computers and people, whether Matt knew it yet or not. There was no grey when it came to the kind of work Mello did. It either happened or it didn't. The shower came on a moment later, and Mello still stood by the table, staring at the goggles. He wouldn't know until he gave Matt the opportunity. So the hacker wanted his chance…that didn't mean Mello had to gift-wrap it. If the hacker wanted to dive headlong into a world he didn't understand, who was Mello to deny him?

"So you can 'handle' it…Famous last words." He muttered to under his breath. Mello knew…he'd said them himself.


	4. Assets

Matt slid into the driver's seat of his car and slammed the door. His hair was still damp from the shower, but his mood hadn't lightened as it usually did. Things were harder for him these days. The addiction affected him in ways he hadn't thought possible.

Like now, coming down from his high, when his blood felt like mud in his veins and his thoughts were slow and disjointed. Matt had always been immaculate. At Wammy, his room was a wreck but Matt himself…Matt was perfect. He still wasn't sure if he was reflecting his system, or if the system was just a mirror of his personality but…the center made sense. The coding, the files, the programs… all of it was perfectly trained, groomed into something formidable and accurate. Matt's hardware may have been a jumbled mess of wires and various computers, but when the power came on, everything meshed perfectly.

Matt himself was the same in many ways. His hair was always clean, his clothing washed, his goggles clear…even his nails were kept trimmed and neat. When he became unclear, upset and disorganized, he took a shower, because the act of cleaning himself was calming. Restoring order and balance, it cleared his thoughts and allowed him to start fresh.

Except when fucking _Mello_ was involved.

Mello had always, _always,_ known how and when to hurt him. It was absurd the way the blonde got under his skin, with a few well placed words, and fucked with his head like it some toy of his. Especially when it was intentional…Matt supposed that was his fault, for opening up to him all those years ago. Mello had been the first person he'd spoken to on any personal level when he got to Wammy. They'd scared the hell out him, frankly, when they dragged him up the stairs and into a room, talking about they'd begin his training later…they'd worked on their introductions a lot since then, but his first day was almost a scar. Mello had been the one to convince him to eat, though that may have been more intimidation than anything else. Even so, it was Mello that made them stop the drugs…he'd always been grateful for that.

Why it was harder now…well, he supposed it was the morphine in his system. He started the engine and pulled out, heading across town. The drug itself was all good fun while it was in full effect, but after…after the high nearly killed him every time.

Matt didn't feel clean anymore. It tore at his sanity, stretched him thin to know that there was something that he couldn't change, something wrong that he couldn't fix. He felt as though something disgusting and sticky had been painted onto his bones, and no amount of scrubbing would ever get it off. He'd tried to quit once…just once, and the withdrawals had scared him so badly he'd almost killed himself trying to get his buzz back.

Matt was also a proud person. If he'd wanted, he could have made a blue call to Wammy, and enlisted in their medical facility for rehab. He could have been clean a year ago, and even now, at any time he wanted, he knew that he could still make that phone call.

Yet every time he made this trip to a random pay-phone wherever he was at, those were not the words that left his mouth.

He drove through the city, dimly trying to remember what it had been like to live there. He and his parents were from L.A. originally, but that…that was forever ago. The nostalgia inspired by these tall buildings and rolling hills was anything but calming. It reminded him of who he used to be…the life he might have had. He supposed that he would have inherited his father's company, in time. The man had built it from the ground up, and he'd been groomed for the job since he was about six. However, it was something he'd stopped thinking about once Mello drove him forward.

He punched the steering wheel in frustration when Mello returned to his thoughts. He was still pissed at him. Even the new Mello knew how to get into his head, and it's not like he was an open book or something. This new Mello was something else entirely. How he still got under his skin at the blink of an eye, Matt didn't know. He was a complete stranger, and possibly deranged. Even briefly wishing his death didn't ease Matt's anger. He'd always found it easy to lose his temper, and he supposed he was lucky that he was the quiet-type…he was lean, not built for fighting, and he'd have lost anyway.

He needed a fucking cigarette. A moment of feeling blindly through his vest pockets revealed that he'd left them on the fucking table at the fucking apartment, after fucking _Mello_ pissed him off. What a great fucking day this was turning out to be.

He roared into a gas station and parked. It didn't matter if people thought he was trying to make up for something, because Christ knew, that's exactly what it was. His knee was aching again, and for once, he was glad it was his left. He wouldn't be able to drive at all, had it been his right. He reached over to the passenger seat and moved the pile of equipment there. He'd used his car for storage…the mess Mello had found the other night was a result of him double checking his entire system by dragging it up to the apartment and routing the entire thing. He'd brought most of it back down once Mello went to bed.

After a moment of digging, he finally found his wallet.

He straightened and hissed as his knee sung to him; tremors of pain making it shake slightly. After a moment of mental preparation, he opened the door and took a deep breath. A glance into his backseat revealed a cane, Wammy standard issue, lying on top of his reconfigured Xboxes. The thought of pulling it out never even crossed his mind. The cane was an open admittance of weakness, and damn him, but he was feeling pathetic enough already. Mello had insured that for the day. He didn't touch it.

He hated these calls, he hated the fucking morphine, and above all else, he fucking hated his gimp knee.

Using the car door for leverage, he pulled himself up and took a moment to adjust to the pain. Once he was sure that the leg wouldn't buckle under him, he shut the door and made his way up to the sidewalk and then to the pay phone. He passed the glass front of the store, and didn't glance inside. Better not to know how many people he was humiliating himself in front of. He normally wouldn't have bothered, but Mello's insults had made him slightly paranoid…he felt that if he made eye contact with any of these idiots, they'd know…they'd just know about his addiction, and they'd shake their heads and feel sorry for him. Matt couldn't handle that right now.

That was what really bothered him, in the long run…as long as he told himself that he just wanted the drug, and didn't need it, it wasn't an addiction. He knew better, and now that Mello'd had his fun pointing it out, he was hard pressed to think of it as anything else. He damn sure tried, though. He wasn't an addict…he was stronger than that.

He made it to the phone and pulled out his card. Ignoring the operated-voice's instructions to insert money, he dialed the number in white on the otherwise blank metal disk.

A pleasant-sounding woman's voice came on the line a moment later. "Code please?"

"G224-078."

"Pseudo-Matt? Confirm, please?"

"Joy."

"…Accepted, please hold."

Matt sighed and leaned on the glass box, trying to ease the pressure on his leg before it began outright shaking. A moment ticked by, and then an automated menu read off.

"If you're in danger and require immediate assistance, press 1. If you're in need of medical attention, press 2."

Matt thumbed the button, hating himself for it.

"Wammy Medical. If you're hurt and require immediate assistance, press 1. If you're in need of a safe house, press 2. If you're in need of a prescription drop-off, press 3. If you're in need of prolonged medical assistance, or rehabilitation, press 4."

As always, his finger hovered, but his addiction won out.

It was not an addiction.

Three.

"Prescription options." They were shaking their heads, he just knew it. The voice continued. "To set up a medical exam, press 1. To order a refill and drop off, press 2."

Two.

"Authorization code?"

"G224-078, for injury listing 0012."

"Confirm?"

"Joy." The phone beeped at him strangely as the computer searched its files, and there was a moment of silence. A beat too long, and he sighed to himself…that was the last thing he needed.

"Accepted. Request?"

"G224-078 requesting Medical transaction 326 from account WKV4. Amount, 300 hundred Euro, Medication code MOR23. Injury listing 0012 to confirm."

"Request pending. Confirmed."

A human came on the line again, this time a man. "Psuedo-Matt?"

"Yeah."

"How's your knee?"

God, he hated that question. He knew he was ordering too much morphine to accommodate the pain, but he never went in to change the quantity. The doctor on the other end would know that it was too much…he would know. "Still lame, still painful."

"Drop off will be determined by the safe house in your area. Method of Contact?"

"…Use the ghost in the security coding."

"The Jackrabbit?"

"Yeah." The ghost allowed him to keep tabs on Wammy without having to rely on direct contact. He could check it without giving away his location.

"Confirmed. Would you like to schedule the physical?"

"No." That was what it came down to…his leg and his drug. His entire life seemed centered around those two events now, but to Matt, his addiction was the heavier offense. He could tolerate his leg to an extent (until _Mello_ made him feel like a _cripple_), but the morphine was something he was blatantly in denial about. It had been a decision, a long time ago, and as long as it was a decision…he supposed he could live with it. A decision…that's all, not a problem.

"Take care Psuedo-Matt." A click and the voice disappeared, but the line didn't go dead. Matt sighed and switched ears.

"What do you want, Near?"

"…You said you were going to quit." The quiet voice on the other end was just optimistic enough to be insulting. Near watched the Wammy lines for him, initiating a contact every time he ordered more of his meds.

"I lied. What do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm merely noting the fact that you jumped halfway across the nation in the course of a week. I take it you found him?"

"…Yeah."

"What's he like?"

"…He's not the kid I grew up with."

"I'm sorry to hear that. How _is_ your knee, by the way?"

God, that fucking question. "The cartilage hasn't healed properly, and the knee cap is split. How do you think?"

"…Immensely painful. Like I said, I never blamed you for starting. And Mello's health?"

"Got a couple bullet scars, nice knife across his stomach, but other than that, I've actually never seen him better."

"Really? Count on Little Preacher to thrive in debauchery."

Matt rolled his eyes, wanting more than anything to just hang up now. "He asked about you too. Wanted to know if I was in contact with you…"

"I hope for both our sakes you told him no."

"Yeah…Any news on the case?"

"…I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Mello's not talking either. You had to have found something, though…you managed to get an entire taskforce put together…and Mello's going to extremes."

"I'd rather not discuss that."

Matt was heartily sick of people thinking they knew best for him. "Whatever man…I gotta run. We're moving."

"Where to?"

"Near, you know better."

"You're not the only one worried for a friend, Matt."

"Near…Mello was never your friend." Matt hung the phone up and stared at it for a moment longer, wondering to himself why he'd just defended the bastard.

Son of bitch, only _Mello _could manage to piss him off enough to ruin a high, and then have him defend him not an hour later. He didn't understand it.

XXXX

Mello loved this couch…call him crazy, but zebra-striped leather amused him to no end. It was his favorite perch, and he lounged there now, watching Rod talk on the phone to one of his associates. The Mafia was a big organization, stretching across the whole of America, and Mello himself was only involved in this one section. He had contacts in New York, but no real power there. He'd waited until he'd arrived in L.A to assert himself, and once he'd begun making money for the organization, the rest had been easy.

Granted, the local police had been…expensive, but it was a benefit he wouldn't have passed up. It was nearing four in the afternoon now, and he was out of chocolate for the day. That was usually his cue to leave before he got irritable.

Besides, he needed to head back to the apartment and make sure Matt hadn't overdosed because he was angry.

He stood and stretched, and the Mafia stood with him in respect, except the whores. There were new ones almost nightly, so he didn't really pay attention to them. The big black man turned and covered the phone for a second. "You headin' out, man?"

"Yeah, I'm gone for the day. Keep'em on a tight leash Rod…I'll be back around nine tomorrow morning." He turned to address the rest of them. "Go ahead and have a drink tonight…just be sober when you get here tomorrow."

Rod grinned nastily and opened his mouth to add something to that, but the tiny voice on the phone said something that snatched his attention back. "No, I don't want _Sub_ anything…."

Mello listened to the conversation as he donned his jacket. The Dom, who's real name was Dwight Gordon, was currently negotiating another arms deal. It wasn't going well…lately the dealers had stopped carrying the heavier guns that Mello favored. Kira forced them to back off, made them afraid to make too much noise. He couldn't really blame them, but it was still annoying as hell.

"Look, I said I wanted fully automatic." Rod's huge hand clenched around the phone, and Mello frowned slightly. He was not going to replace another one if the Dom got irritated. The big man was notorious for his amazing grip, and Mello had already bought him three new phones after he crushed them in his fist. "You've worked with me for years; I know you know the difference."

More from the small voice, and Rod's temper dipped into dangerous territory.

"Damn it, listen to me. The sub-machines are not enough…I don't want them anymore. I want the best you've got, and I know that you still carry them. If you want my business at all, you'll give me what I want."

Mello caught the Dom's eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. Rod just waved him off. "Do we have an agreement Cyrus?"

A moment of listening, and Rod grinned. "Alright, that's better."

"Work the prices, Rod. I don't care how high, just as long as we're equipped." Mello remarked as he headed for the door.

The big black man covered the phone as he passed, and Mello hated the fact that the man was so much bigger than he was. He barely reached the man's shoulders. He wasn't afraid of him, it just made him feel little…perhaps from his time in the monastery as a child. "Take it easy man…Why don't you take Lynsey home with you?"

A blond girl on the couch just in front of them turned around, looking Mello over. "Is he nice, Rod?"

"No." Mello replied bluntly, not even remotely interested in the pets that Rod insisted on keeping. He supposed the women made him feel powerful.

"I'm sure he'll try though." The Dom nudged him towards the girl. "Go on, she likes it rough anyway."

"…No."

Lynsey pouted up at him. "Oh, but I'm awfully curious…You look a little bit like a Preacher, you know?"

Mello was hardly paying attention, and just heard 'Little' and 'Preacher'. Little Preacher, at first a term of endearment from Eric and Roger, and later the insult of choice from Near…just like the old days, it sent a shock of anger through him, a scowl twisting its way onto his features. The girl shrank before him, suddenly nervous.

"Don't ever call me that again."

"Okay."

"Mello?"

"Shut up Rod. I'm going home, and the bitch stays here."

"Okay man…take it easy."

He headed for the elevator.

XXXX

"M0 Y320…"

Mello frowned into the phone, refusing to say anything just yet. Ratt shouldn't be calling him unless…

"We're currently operating under intel that confirms that the notebook that kills using a person's name in it is currently with the Japanese police."

"Good." He shut the cell phone without another word and just stared at the wall for a minute. A notebook, then?

He'd known that whatever Kira was using had to be small…small enough to be hidden, recovered, and hidden again while L was investigating his suspects. A notebook would fit that description, yet it was startling all the same. Was it the notebook that granted the power, or was Kira's power in the writing of the name itself? That didn't seem likely, or there would have been a lot more evidence. If Near had uncovered enough information to have a taskforce assembled, then he couldn't risk the thought of it being a hoax.

The notebook had to be real…he couldn't afford to think otherwise.

Still, he shivered at the thought.

He sat in his desk in the spare bedroom he'd turned into a lab of sorts. He was currently filling his rubber tubing with reactive chemicals. The helicopter he planned on blowing up was nice, and it was shame to waste the money, but it was better to not leave loose ends. He set the phone aside and returned to his work, tying the tubing shut with wire and checking for leaks. The rubber would melt with the initial blast, and the liquid inside would explode, setting off a chain reaction throughout the structure of the helicopter until nothing but pieces remained. Pieces too small to be identifiable, and certainly too battered to be traced.

The door eased open, and Matt put his shoulder to the door frame, watching. He smelled like water and damp cigarettes, and his hair dripped onto the towel around his shoulders. He'd begun to take his showers when Mello got back, apparently to escape his temper. Mello ignored him, picking up another length of rubber and securing one end before running the pipe. He had to fill them from bottom up to minimize air in the lines. Each section was about three feet long, and the acrid scent of chemicals was beginning to hang heavily in the air.

"Rubber?" Matt asked from the doorway.

"Yes." He started the flow gingerly, retracting the pipe as it filled. "It's easier to install."

"What are you blowing up?"

"A helicopter."

Matt made a strange face; but nodded anyway. "Okay…when?"

"As soon as possible." Mello tied that tube shut and put it alongside his others. "Look in my coat pocket, on the left. There's a set of coordinates that I need you to input into the missile."

"Have you got it installed then?" Matt's voice echoed down the hall as he headed for the jacket on the couch.

"Yes. It's in place, and ready to be programmed. We're heading out in an hour or so, so get your shit together."

"What kind of system is it?"

"Older military. It shouldn't take you more than an hour."

Matt reappeared in the doorway, the paper in hand. "Geez…this is going right over the president's head, isn't it?"

Mello nodded, and capped his chemicals. Storing the tubing in a drawer, he closed the suitcase at his feet and hefted it onto the table as carefully as he could. A notebook…a bloody notebook…God had a sense of humor after all. It made him sick.

"You okay?"

Mello wondered why he bothered asking. He ignored the question completely, brushing by on his way to the living room. The expression on his face was troubled…more troubled than he cared to admit. Things were finally moving to a point where they couldn't slow down.

XXXX

Mello shut the door behind the worried man, completely expressionless. He had no idea how this meeting would go, but he wasn't about to get the older thug's hopes up. Mello could be cruel if needed, and there were no reassurances to be had. He turned to face the woman in the chair, watching her try to listen carefully. The blindfold was loose enough to be comfortable, but secure, and with her hands behind her back, he had little to worry about.

The interrogation room was little more than an empty office with a table, lamp, and a couple of chairs. Simple, and effective, he had chosen it himself from the building that the Family had bought and were using as headquarters.

It suited him.

He let her sit there for another few minutes, just watching her over his shoulder until the sound of footsteps finally moved away from the door. She turned her head slightly from side to side, trying to determine if she was really alone or not. He read over the badge in his hands. The woman was a niece of one of his associates…an FBI agent with actual blood-ties to the Family. She was here because Mello needed some information, and there were two ways to do this...

Basic interrogation fell into two categories…Persuasion and blackmail. Even basic torture revolved around those two principles, because they stemmed from the two most powerful emotional reactions…pleasure and pain. It was always better to blend the two, when possible, because the result was a more complete control. While it was time consuming, a master like L could have it down to a series of gestures, blows, questions. Mello intended to be that good someday, but he was short on time right now. Once that list came in, they had to move quickly before their window of opportunity closed….

Blackmail was risky, and if she were proud, she'd try to find a way out of it. Persuasion would be more difficult to maintain, because it required Mello playing nice…Mello didn't do nice very well. Blending the two seemed to be his best option….

However, it was matter of personality, and he wouldn't know that until she started talking. He tossed the little leather folio onto the table. "Agent Hal Lidner?"

"Yes."

"I trust you are comfortable?"

The woman grimaced, shifting in her chair. "As much as the circumstances allow, yes. Who are you?"

"Your uncle…Ralph Bay, is a colleague of mine."

"A Colleague…so you're more Mafia scum…."

"If he meant so little to you, you wouldn't have met him at the café." Mello strolled over to the table and regarded the covered eyes. "Now, while I can appreciate the brave front that the FBI has trained you to have, you are going to be afraid of me before our relationships ends. I think we both know that, because you have a general idea of whom you are dealing with, and what I am capable of. News travels fast in the bureau, and your supervisor is likely watching for me."

She froze, turning her head slightly towards his voice. "…The missile… at the Arizona compound. That was you, wasn't it?"

Mello smirked, crossing his arms. "Yes. And if you didn't know that, then I highly doubt that you'll be able to track it down before I use it."

"…When did the Mafia grow a pair? What is this about? Money?" 

"No…this is about Kira."

Her face paled and hardened instantly. The sudden silence, inspired by fear and hatred, excited Mello to no end. "You know Near, don't you?"

She didn't answer. He stood, pulled her chair back away from the table and turned her, leaving her in the center of the floor. Crouching before the chair, he stared up into her face with an undeniable smirk adorning his. "You know him…white as fallen snow, eyes that could rip the soul from your chest. The Genius child leading your seasoned officers…You know him. And I have a secret."

She tensed, and if she expected a blow, who was Mello to deny her? He was an impulsive person, after all. The back of his gloved hand cracked sharply across her cheek. The blow was restrained, for Mello, but the feminine jaw still snapped crudely, a flower of blood smeared across his glove as her lip burst under the pressure. He brought her around by the chin, the fresh cut starting to bleed slowly. "Near… has no idea where you are. The SPK is not coming to save you."

He paused to let that sink in.

"Now. Let's talk, Hal." He knelt before her and slowly untied the blindfold. It fell away and she winced at the sudden light. Her eyes were as startlingly blue as Mello's own, and he watched them widen at the sight of him. He was attractive, and these stares were hardly uncommon. It was something he never quite got tired of, and the irrepressible smirk graced his lips once again, turning his beautiful face into something dangerous…something to be feared.

And Hal was afraid.

However, as he stared back at her, holding her attention captive, he barely saw her. He was making a snap assessment of her personality, judging how much she had to be worked by the way she responded to him in these few crucial seconds of first contact, reading her before she had a chance to lock him out again. It made him realize that he likely shouldn't have hit her. Her personality allowed for a lot of play room. Push too hard and she would lock up…however…the pistol was not his only weapon, just his favorite. He lowered his voice slightly.

"My name is Mello. Near's probably told you about me."

She nodded, and he stood, rubbing the blood on his leather glove between his fingers.

"I know that he's likely told you a _lot_ about me, in fact. What to expect, how to handle me in a difficult situation…He's likely instructed you on how not to make me angry. So I suppose it's in your best interest to know that he has no clue what he's talking about. We are different people now, and both playing a dangerous game." He paused to look back at her. "I trust you can appreciate that, considering that you're risking your life to work with him against Kira."

She hesitated; then nodded slowly. He circled around behind her, strolling as he spoke.

"Near and I are working towards the same goal, and he does not approve of my methods. I'm sure you've noticed, however, that he is reluctant to directly interfere with my work."

"He's the _only_ reason we haven't tracked you down yet."

"Near himself can't track me down…I have a hard time believing that a bunch of bureaucratic cops will have an easy time of it."

"And if I'm bugged? If the SPK is tracking me?"

Mello lowered his tone slightly, cocking an eyebrow at the back of her head. "Do you _want_ me to strip you?"

He let it imply everything. She sat up a little straighter, caught in her mistake, but said nothing. Mello reached back and pulled the other chair up just behind hers. The pistol slid into his grip, and he sat just behind her, throwing his arms around her shoulders as his legs propped out beside hers, his leather-clad knees brushing her thighs. He rested his chin on his arm, just beside her ear, and got comfortable. She tensed beneath him, her shoulders like steel.

She tried to jerk away once, and her fingers grazed the inside of his thigh. As expected, she froze, a high blush coming to her cheeks, and he just smirked in his victory. "Don't distract yourself…I'm trying to talk to you."

He could feel her anger and embarrassment in the heat coming from her body. He began toying with his gun, checking the magazine, cocking it. "You've had military training…it's in good condition isn't it?"

She nodded tersely.

"Talk to me, Hal. I like your voice."

"…Yes, it is. Professional."

He nodded to himself and decided to begin working at her temper. "I'm glad you agree. I have a little question, not really related to our subject but…did you know an agent name Tanner Hudson?"

"…No." A lie, he knew from her tone, and mentally added another thing to his list of thanks owed L. From the sound of it, she knew him personally…possibly worked alongside him at some point.

"He was a mole. Funny story really…I routed him when I got here, and I was just curious to see if you'd worked with him." Mello chuckled into her ear, even as something in him told him to stop, a slick oil-on-water feeling in his stomach. "You know how I found him out?"

"…No."

"We were in a gunfight with the police downtown one evening…and he was shooting in the wrong direction. I took a bullet to the shoulder." Mello let his hands hang limp, the pistol loose in one, his fingers hovering inches over her breasts…close enough that if she inhaled deeply, it would be highly inappropriate. A mere invasion of privacy…he had no desire to actually molest the woman. At the moment, he'd settle for pissing her off and arousing her at the same time. Better to keep his assets completely confused…letting them settle into one emotional mindset could be dangerous; it allowed them to focus. The gesture had its desired effect.

"Re…." She cleared her throat, and tried again, still shifting in her chair. "Really?"

"Yes…Of course I was sixteen then…still a kid. He wasn't trying to bring me down, and I think that's what killed him in the long run. No one that young in the Family could hit the broad side of a barn, much less target to wound…except me, of course. That's military." He smirked at the memory. Her attempts to inch away from his invasive hands only brought her throat closer to his mouth. He leaned in slightly, running his lips down the curve of skin. "Hope you didn't know him."

It crossed lines.

The emotional insult and the physical contact lit a fire in his captive. The cuffs rang as she suddenly pulled them tight and drug her nails down his inner thigh. He hissed in a breath, and brought the muzzle to bear on her chin. "Don't do that, love. I like it."

"You're sick."

"And you're in no position to call me names. Now…Let's talk about Kira."

"Let's not."

He tilted her head back, the pointed sighting-bar on the pistol's barrel digging into her soft under-throat. "Let's."

She didn't move, and he gradually relaxed his hold on her. The distaste and sense of unease took him again, and he sighed to himself. He hated touching women almost as much as wanting to touch men. "I am aware of the fact that Near received a skeleton file from…a mutual benefactor. It contained shreds of information stored by the original L to guide us towards Kira. Has he gained anything from this file?"

"Nothing more than a slight narrowing on location."

"Kanto region of Japan?"

"…Yes." Another lie…Near had figured out a lot more than that if his other contact wasn't bluffing.

"Good girl. Now, has he actually met the new L?"

"As far as I know there has been no direct communication." That meant that Near still hadn't made his move on the Notebook yet, and if he hurried, there was a good chance that he could land a viable hostage…possibly more if he went undetected long enough. There was no room for error, because there would be no second chances. If she were lying…

"As far as you know isn't good enough." The pressure returned.

"There hasn't been any!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, damn it, now stop! That hurts." Mello chuckled again, refusing to admit he was relieved, and took the gun away to graze his fingers over the red mark he'd left.

The next question was purely curiosity on his part. "What does he think of him?"

"Stop touching me…" Mello rolled his eyes behind her, but pulled his fingers away, and she continued. "He thinks the new L to be a brilliant liar, and completely useless."

"Those his exact words?"

"Yes."

"Sounds like him. Now, let's come to an agreement on-"

She cut him off by snapping her head back into his mouth. "I'm _not_ helping you."

Mello saw red for a moment, and lowered the gun before he shot the bitch out of spite. She tried to rock her chair sideways, but he tightened his knees, and in the end the attempt at escape did nothing but piss him off. He tongued the inside of his lip, where his canine had sliced the tender skin open. The sweet copper of blood filled his mouth. Once he regained a little bit of his control, he brought the gun up again, glossing over the incident for the sake of time.

"Yes…you are. You're going to help me because this isn't about Near and Me…it's about Kira. Well…mostly about Kira anyway. Near and I both want him gone, and while our methods differ greatly, our cause is the same."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I haven't given you reason to do otherwise thus far." The temptation to shoot her was still great, and he stood, staying close enough to make them both uncomfortable as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. "Now, on that note, let me tell you this. You'll also help me for a few other reasons…like your uncle…and his brother, and his wife. And your grandmother…."

"You couldn't find my parents."

"I found you. Kira hasn't even managed that yet."

Silence.

Wasted time….

"Do we have an agreement?"

"What do you want?"

"Nothing more than a few minutes of your time whenever I need it. I like to keep tabs on my competition."

"You'd murder innocent people because of this 'competition'?"

"People, as a general rule, are not innocent, Hal Lidner." He came to crouch before her again, one knee on the ground, and picked up the discarded blindfold. "Does the name Starling mean anything to you?"

"…That was you too? You killed Dom Starling?" Her eyes widened, her tone slightly awed. There was no chance of that being a lie, because in reality, a total of five people knew that Dom Starling even existed before his murder. Mello had been one of them, and it had been the pilot that got him the good graces to actually meet the man. To this day, only those five, the team of police that investigated the murder and the FBI of California knew the man's name.

"A lot of everything has been me. So how's that for a first impression?"

She stared down at him and took a deep breath. "Powerful."

He retied the blindfold. "Good girl."

XXXX


	5. Missile

"MO VIS236 C6. If we run right now, we'll still be able to make Flight SE333."

Mello grinned to himself, waving to get Rod's attention. "Perfect. Get on Flight SE333 right before it departs."

Sayu Yagami stared at the floor, refusing to look up as the Dom approached her. She'd been one of the best hostages Mello'd ever had…and that said something. She rarely spoke, never fought, accepted her meals without question, and generally played along with him. He treated her well, and somehow, she knew it.

Right now, her father was being diverted to a different plane, courtesy of Matt hacking the airport's security and printing tickets for the director and his kidnapper. If all went well, he should be arriving here in the states inside a few hours. That gave him time to get his end of things in place.

Mello reached for the laptop, accessing the PDA system that would link him to the Deputy director. He called the machine from the laptop and opened the line, setting the mechanized voice and microphone up. A whimper from the girl snapped his attention away.

Rod was picking her up by the elbow.

"Rod! That's enough."

The big black man grinned, but shifted his hold on the girl into something more comfortable. "Sorry…These Japanese chicks are a lot more submissive than I'm used to. I like it."

"She's not a toy. Get her to the car."

"_Mello, he's on the line, I'm patching him through in three, two…"_

Matt's voice from the transceiver in his own ear nearly caught him off guard. The hacker was at the apartment, running the electronic side-show from there. He was currently in control of monitoring the missile launch and finalization of all code transactions. Kal Snydar thought that was his job, but Mello had put far too much money into this project to risk him throwing something off again. All of his actions were being mirrored through Matt. There was a static beep as the line opened up, and Mello waved for silence, leaning back with his mike.

"Yagami, only you can hear my voice. Not even the man next to you can hear me, so listen closely." Rod handed the girl off to a rat-faced man and sent him out the door. So that was the helicopter pilot…Mello hadn't bothered to get to know him after he'd rigged the helicopter.

"At this moment, all I want is the notebook."

XXXX

Matt unlocked the door remotely as the car pulled up to desert compound. His main laptop was split into nine separate boxes onscreen, eight of which were security feeds. The bottom two were the main room at the Mafia headquarters, bugged by Mello himself, and the rest were from the compound in the desert. It'd taken him a week and half to get all of the cameras operational again, but now they were all linked to his system, and the information stream made up the ninth and final panel on his system.

He'd shoved the couch back against the bar of the kitchen and set his full system up after Mello had left this morning. Now, with the T.V. receiving feed from one of his Xboxes he had four laptops, two monitors, two towers, and two or three external hard-drives hooked to his main laptop in the center. It covered the entirety of the living room floor, spread about in a circle with him in the center. To his left was the outside of the compound on Laptops, directly in front of him was the helicopter pad on laptop, missile launch on the laptop just behind that, and Mello's team in HQ on the television. To his right were the incoming system lines from the compound, one laptop monitoring the news, the second held the camera above the exchange bin. The monitors were attached to the towers behind him, one monitoring the PDA the policeman from Japan had, and the other one streaming another nine-split screen of the two miles of desert surrounding the base. Key cameras were on his main computer, cameras like the one above the exchange door, and the distance between the helicopter and the back exit.

Two figures got out of the car, one smaller and obviously bound, and the driver pulled out and left them there. They approached the facility and appeared on a screen to his left, visible from the corner of his eyes. A window appeared on his main laptop, with the man's entry code, and he forwarded that to Kal Snydar, the high school drop out.

On the T.V. he watched Kal tilt the laptop on his table towards Mello for a second. Mello nodded once, still talking into the microphone, and the signal returned to him. Confirming the man's access, he opened the door and let the thug drag the girl inside. Matt's lip curled at the rough treatment, and he was glad he was sober enough to see it.

XXXX

Mello set the microphone down to let the cop consider his options for a minute before he continued. Kal spoke up. "They've reached the base, the girl is being put inside the door."

"Mello, you've got a call." Rod held the phone for him as he opened his chocolate.

"Mello speaking."

"M0 SE33372…Ah fuck, it's Kyle, Mello. I'm clear of the airport, son, when you want me to head over?"

Mello grinned to himself. "Now's fine, Kyle. I'll meet you at the airport."

"These coordinates still stand?"

"Yes…and be careful, if you miss them you'll be rock-hopping that passenger through the mountains."

"Sounds like a party."

"Pleasure drinking with you, Kyle."

"Anytime you're up for it, son." He nodded and Rod hung up the phone. He brought the mike up again, glancing across the room at the hidden camera he'd put there for Matt.

"Listen up, Yagami. Before that plane reaches L.A. it's going to make a pit stop."

XXXX

"_Wait until I look at you to get the missile ready…there'll be a plane heading your way…"_

Matt watched Mello look away again and grinned, pulling his goggles down. So, there really would be a passenger plane detouring to the base. Wicked.

Something caught his attention in the one of the screens and he frowned. He leaned forward to his mike again. "Mello, the guy at the compound is messing with your hostage. Should I remind him that he's on camera?"

Mello didn't look back or stop talking but nodded his head once sharply.

He leaned in again. "Should I be nice about it?"

Mello rolled his eyes, and bit off half his chocolate. Matt keyed in his codes and brought the audio up on the compound. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the man's voice as it filtered through his speakers, and he wasted no time in flipping his mike over to the compound intercoms and upping the volume.

"Whatsa matter baby? It's nice and quiet, and no one's around…why don't we…" 

"Hey, Jack Ass. You're on camera. Put her in the bin, and back the fuck up."

The thug sighed and pulled back, leaving the Japanese girl cowering against the wall. He spun her around and pulled the cording off her wrists before shoving her the last few feet into the revolving door. Matt was watching carefully, but she didn't appear to be hurt, so he went ahead with prepping the missile pad.

"Arigato." _Thank you._ He glanced back to find her staring at the camera through the thick fiberglass door, and grinned, proud of himself. She stared at the camera for another few minutes, but deemed that he wasn't going to answer her and sat down.

Matt flipped lines again.

XXXX

"_Okay, Missile is prepped, and the girl's fine."_

Mello nodded again, still talking around the chocolate in his mouth. "I don't underestimate revenge as a motive. For our own safety, you're better off alive. Now, wasn't that more believable than some lame excuse?"

The man didn't answer…Japanese were such proud people. "Yagami, I want you to contact L. I don't care if you contact him directly, or through one of your men."

He snapped a Kal to make sure he was paying attention before continuing. "I want you to get L to stop every media report on flight SE333. If the media reports that you got off the plane alone, Kira may decide to kill you."

He pulled the mike away for a split second. "Count to five after the initial report comes in."

He returned to Yagami. "After I confirm that L has stopped the media, I'll send you a picture of how your daughter's doing right now."

XXXX

Matt watched Kal's system as he opened up a channel for the local news, and began back tracing to other stations. Now, he was waiting for the media to stop. The hacker pulled his headphones on, and watched the laptop at his right. There were currently twenty four channels in both Japan and California that were covering the stolen airliner.

Ten minutes later, the smaller screen-shots began to go blank one by one.

This new guy definitely wasn't L, but he knew how to use L's toys. He waited until the radio coverage died off too before removing the headphones, and recording ten seconds of footage from the camera on the Yagami girl. On the monitor, the Japanese cop began typing that all media was down on his PDA. Matt confirmed it before stopping the filtering program on the news, and forwarding the PDA's message to Kal's computer.

On the T.V. he watched Kal report it to Mello and leaned down to his mike. "Matt confirms dipshit's story."

Mello smirked and Matt nodded to himself, prepping a still-frame from the security tape and sending that off to the PDA.

Mello continued talking into the mike before glancing at the camera again. Matt turned to the PDA screen and waited. Quickly, and with a few typos, a message appeared and he flipped lines over to the compound again.

"Sayu Yagami, I've got a message from your father. I'm on my way, so don't worry. I promise to rescue you. You seem to have your watch with you, can you tell me what time it is?" He dipped into the PDA system, and waited. "We allowed him to ask this question and you're free to answer it."

The girl spouted off in Japanese immediately, and Matt had a hard time keeping up. He hadn't taken the class since Wammy's but he could at least decipher the numbers. He figured that the rest was the usual love-crap, and decided to just send that along.

2:42.

XXXX

"Mello, call."

"Mello Speaking."

"M0 and some bullshit numbers…. It's Kyle again. I'm landing."

"Confirmed…Japanese guy should be getting off, no one but him." He hung up and turned to Kal. "I want the visual feed on the compound."

After a moment of frustrated clicking by his less than perfect hacker, the window came up, and Rod came to look over his shoulder as the plane descended. The big man chuckled. "And Cousin Block is on that plane? The _real_ Cousin Block, from New York?"

"Cousin Block is flying the plane, Rod…how the hell do you think the mafia got a custom drop-off with a passenger flight?"

"Man, you're shitting me…."

"No, I'm not. He's pulling some favors with his retirement. Are they down yet?"

"Yeah, the stairs just let loose." Kal remarked.

"_Confirmed. Yagami is on the ground and alone, plane is pulling off."_

Mello nodded and waited until Kal waved him on to start talking again. "Yagami, you can now use your cell phone. I want you to order a helicopter with one pilot to pick you and your daughter up. And make sure to tell your friends that if anything other than that helicopter comes within two miles of where you stand, you and your daughter will be killed."

A beeping sound came over the speakers. Mello frowned. "What's that?"

"Yagami's cell phone."

Mello's face lit up, because only two people would able to monitor Yagami now, and he wanted to gloat to them both. He punched the mike again. "Answer it, but I want you to use the ear with the ear-phone in it so we can listen too."

He listened tensely, but was disappointed in the end. The new L seemed almost as worried over this girl as her own father. It was ridiculous…if L were dealing with Kira, he'd have never allowed something like this to….

Fuck, that was disappointing. He sighed to himself, licking his candy bar. "Open the hatch."

XXXX

Matt watched the idiot in the compound receive a phone call and flip him off through the camera. He rolled his eyes and leaned to the far left, entering the remote access codes for the folding door. Then, he leaned back and got comfortable, because there would be a few minutes in the explaining of the exchange.

He took the time to study the girl's father…he held himself well. Rather old…she was either his youngest or only. He seemed really hesitant about handing over whatever he'd been brought there for. In fact, aside from his briefcase, he didn't seem to be carrying anything at all.

He frowned and turned the audio up. What was this guy doing?

"-exchange should seem safe to you. But if we really wanted, we could have set a bomb on your side, or hidden a sniper in the desert. This is all up to you…whether you trust us based on what you heard on the plane."

There was a moment of silence, and then the cop nodded uneasily. Matt squinted at the screen, trying to see what they were talking about.

"You've got the notebook, right?"

Notebook? What the fuck?

"Yes, I have it hidden in my suit."

"I see, it would have been might stupid of you to just place it in that suitcase. Get the notebook out."

Matt rolled his eyes. Mello looked directly at the camera again, and he leaned into his mike.

"Y462, Start the exchange."

There was no way they were risking this girl's life over a notebook. It had to be some kind of computer or-

Holy shit, it was actually a Notebook. He zoomed in on the thing as they slid it through the door.

XXXX

"You're leaving us no choice but to kill the Girl." Mello reminded the detective, watching the progress on the small laptop screen.

"_Mello, what the hell is going on?! All this shit for a notebook?"_

"We don't have time to play around. Kill the gi…" Yagami cut him off, as expected. The notebook slid through the gap in the bulletproof. He'd spent a lot of money redesigning that door, and he was rather proud of the fact that it was working so well.

"_What is he doing? What the hell?"_ Matt sounded irritated, but Mello imagined he would too if he'd put so much work into a project only to find that the prize was a small black book. Matt didn't know what that notebook held however…and as his pawn pulled his arm back, Mello found himself unable to breathe. He settled for rolling the chocolate across his tongue and trying not to look at the man behind him. Twenty seconds now…

"_Mello, you're insane. You're fucking insane…what the hell is…"_

The sudden hacking cough from behind him drowned out the rest of the sentence.

XXXX

Matt stared, eyes wide, as the man directly behind Mello clutched his chest, and fell. He disappeared from sight, and Matt's eyes slowly found the notebook again. A heart attack?

No Fucking Way.

He turned back to the T.V., but Mello hadn't moved, and the Dom…he was laughing. Talking as though…nothing had happened...

As though they'd…_expected_ it?

"Y642, the target is dead."

Oh god.

Oh _fuck_.

Matt's hands fell limp, his mouth open in shock. Kira…that was _Kira_…the notebook. He felt a shiver run down his spine. That was Kira, but Mello had just…he glanced at the television again, watching two men drag the corpse into a corner. He'd just…but the girl was free and Yagami was leaving. He was still staring at the screen when the Rat's voice came over the audio. He appeared on the helicopter screen between the main and the television, snapping at the camera.

"Fire the fucking _missile_! I'm _out_!"

He numbly reached over and typed the code in, shaking his head to clear it. Shit…shit, they had Kira's note…Kira's power. It was on the missile. Okay.

Yagami and his daughter took off, and the Rat was still firing his own engine. He was in the air, cussing Matt as he called the Dom on the helicopter's radio. Okay. Okay, they were leaving, everyone was gone, the note was somewhere over Kansas, and everything would be fine.

"You promised to erase my past failures." The Rat's voice echoed weirdly through both the laptop and T.V. speakers.

He glanced up to see Mello nod at the camera again. Kal's hands moved the laptop, and a new window appeared on his screen. Mind racing, he entered the code without glancing twice at it.

The screen just behind his main laptop, with the helicopter's pilot on it roared, glistening red and white. He jumped violently at the noise, eyes wide. The screen went white, then static.

"_**What are you blowing up?"**_

"_**A helicopter."**_

Oh fuck…

Numbly, still staring at that one screen, his hand found the main keyboards. A few strokes, and one by one, the screens surrounding him faded into white-noise as well.


	6. Want

Matt didn't look up when the door opened and closed again. Still staring at the black and white static onscreen, he barely blinked as keys settled onto the table, and the footsteps stopped, just behind him.

"…Are you gonna say a prayer?" His voice sounded strange, tired even to his own ears. The lethargic shock still hadn't completely worn off, and his laptop beeped feebly at him, in danger of battery failure for the first time in seven years.

"I don't say those much anymore."

"…Shame, I guess." The footsteps returned, moving into the kitchen, and the quiet squeak of a cabinet opening told him exactly how he sounded. It was pathetic, that the morphine left such an impression that he could appear high when he hadn't had a drop.

It wasn't that he hadn't considered it. He wanted it…almost admitted to himself that he needed it at this point. He knew a long time ago that want and need had blurred, becoming one unfathomable beast in his psyche. It wasn't something easy to deal with. Instead of coping, he simply lied…he wanted his drug, he didn't need it. As long as he simply wanted….

He'd kill himself right now…his _want_ was so great. It left a churning rage in his stomach, a sick feeling of nails on a chalkboard, and why was it supposed to be easier again? He'd told himself, it'd be so easy sober…there wasn't room for a mistake, and clumsy fingers had almost cost them enough. He'd known before, what was going to happen. Mello didn't elaborate, but he knew that he'd be setting off a bomb or two. He wanted to be clear-headed…no mistakes. So, he was sober…so very, very sober, and it was absolute hell. He'd told himself that it would be easier...

It wasn't. It would never be, and this was just another stain…Just another fucking stain on his soul, like the God damned cigarettes and the opium. Here, in front of the couch, he'd murdered a person. Entered the final codes that set off the explosion in the helicopter, and that was murder, wasn't it?

He'd seen his face on the camera…he'd watched the camera go dead, and known.

He'd just fucking _known_….

It was a life. It was more than a life…it was a person. A person with dreams and feelings, with a favorite movie and color, a guy who was young enough to still do something with himself….

…And _Matt_ had killed him.

Worse, it had been easy, so fucking easy…like pulling the trigger. He hated his own analogy of it now, because it was so true. He hadn't even thought about what he was doing, it'd been so simple

"My father was a pilot." Why was he talking about his father? He didn't want to talk about him, or his mother…the words came unbidden, pulled from thought processes that were buried to keep him sane. They drew lines that would drive him crazy. He wanted his drug. "It was his hobby."

There were no footsteps, just the quiet white-noise of the television, but he could hear him. He was listening. More words came, and the laptop beeped again, and his cigarettes were on the table, but he didn't want to get up. "They bought him a helicopter for his thirtieth year with the company…my mother and the team. Big celebration. Lots of balloons."

He swallowed, his mouth made of cotton. Gin would be nice…maybe rum, but he doubted there was any in the apartment. He couldn't kill himself on alcohol…he'd tried that once. He was too much of a lightweight. He glanced over as the laptop shut down, and the image of his eyes widening, his smile faltering as the fire lit and then grew…

"Red balloons…and blue…and green…And we all got goggles. Big shiny goggles, so that when Pops took us up, we could see for miles, with the wind in our hair." His eyes couldn't move from the blank screen, words still coming, his mind hours into the past, witnessing his first murder. "Better than any convertible…that's what my mother said. She was a beautiful woman…so beautiful."

He smiled to himself, his mind and the expression not really connected at all. "They loved to fly…my parents. Thirtieth year at the company. I was…nine…almost ten."

"Come to find out, I was scared of heights." His chuckle was dry, grating even on his nerves. He wished he could get up and actually walk to the kitchen for his drug, but maybe it was better that he stayed here…he'd take too much, so damn much…until the _face_ went away.

Heh, and then some for kicks.

"I never flew with them…not once. I wore my goggles whenever we were home, though. Off came the tie, and then came the shiny plastic…like a badge or something." Matt's fingers came up to the plastic around his throat, green this time. "We'd just gotten back from a business trip…first time at home in three months. We got settled, and the bags were unpacked…They went out."

He swallowed; his cigarettes were on the table. There was a lighter in his pocket. Mello was listening, they both were. No footsteps, full attention…the screen of his laptop went black. "Technical difficulty…poor maintenance while we were away…and I think…."

He paused, his head tilting slightly to the side, eyes glassy. "I think they were alive when they hit the ground."

Still nothing from _him_.

He found himself wondering why he'd never told _him_ this before. There hadn't been a need…there was nothing lingering about his pain. The end of it had been sudden, irretrievable. His parents left one day, and they didn't come back. There wasn't time to wait, or mourn…there was no time to wait for anything.

He only had five cigarettes in that pack, he should go get more tomorrow….

"It…didn't matter. There were no goodbyes, and I didn't have a chance to go to the funeral. I was…discovered. Wammy house…you."

"Why didn't you say something before this?"

"Would you have listened? Anyway…I think I…I think I _forgot_, actually." He leaned forward to brace his head in his hands, remembering to how to breathe. Christ, that face…running a hand over his eyes, he couldn't see anything else. "I just…forgot."

"Why are you sober?"

A wry chuckle escaped his throat, and he stood shakily, his knee almost giving way. "Because...I don't trust me either, remember?"

He picked up his laptop and hobbled to the table, and it'd been a while since he let himself get this dry…the pain was unbelievable. His last shot had been…almost a day and a half ago, when Mello left to make the arrangements. He could feel the bone and cartilage grinding under his weight.

Mello said nothing, staring hard at him. He returned the gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes. Mello had the scariest eyes…he saw everything. "…I guess I'm…handling it. I didn't mean to tell you that."

"It's nothing, Mail."

"That's…not my name."

"What?"

The lethargy left in a rush, replaced by a slow roar that he didn't recognize as anger until his fists clenched. "That's not my name."

He watched Mello pull his hands from his pockets. "Mail's not…Are you sure you're sober?"

The morphine…son of a bitch, this was not about the morphine! He didn't fucking need the goddamned _morphine_…Why did he have to bring it up? Why did he have to dig like that, get a little deeper every time, work his way into the skin until Matt couldn't get him out? Why did _Mello_ know how to hurt him like this?

Why was this suddenly Mello's fault?

"You son of a bitch, why is it your fault?!" Matt didn't realize he was moving until he shoved Little Preacher back into the wall so hard that his head rapped the stucco sharply. He voice was strained, his mouth dry, and he wasn't entirely sure of what he was talking about anymore. "How did you make me forget? My fucking _parents_! I forgot my parents because you…you…made me. How could I forget…."

Hands came to rest on his shoulders, not so much comforting as cautious. "Easy, Mail."

He slammed Little Preacher back into the wall again, for the first time in seven years, raising his voice. "My name is _not_ MAIL! It's Matt! It's fucking MATT! And you…."

"Calm down." Mello was trying to pull his hands away from his coat, but Matt was so lost. His mind was broken into a dozens pieces by early withdrawal symptoms and the complete emotional shock of the day's work. Death in a Notebook…death by a key-stroke…and now Mello was trying tear down every wall he'd built up to support him.

"You gave it to me." He finished, numbly, backing up to lean in the opposite side of the doorframe. "You…you made me Matt. You didn't let me…be weak, you didn't let me think about it. You made me Matt, and I forgot…I forgot who Mail was."

Mello eased into the kitchen and pulled the cabinet open. The familiar clink of a bottle woke something bestial in the hacker, an excitement that bordered arousal, because that was his drug, and he wanted it. It was everything he wanted, all he needed to make it all better. Just a shot, a sting of pain, and then even murder wouldn't make him blink. It would be quiet, so blessedly quiet and warm. He would forget. His arms wrapped around his stomach, his knee still shaking violently with the strain of his weight. "No…"

"You need it."

"NO!" He pulled away, stumbling to the table, though every fiber in his being tried to run the other way. "No, I don't _need_ it!"

"I'm not going to tell you twice, Matt."

"Mello, I can't…I'll kill myself." Oh fuck, he wanted…. "I'll kill myself with it, I swear."

"No you won't. Come here."

Matt ran his hands through his hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his heart and mind ripped him in half. God, if he could have it, he could forget the face…that Goddamned FACE, the wide eyes, the shock, the betrayal…the life….

"Mello, I _want_ it. I want it so fuckin' bad…."

"I know."

"But you don't understand." He was biting his lip, curling into himself as a tearless sob wracked his frame. "I don't…I _can't_…"

He felt, rather then saw, Mello turn back to him, and he refused to look up. He didn't understand, just didn't fucking _get it_. How could he let himself forget a murder? "Please, Mello, don't let me."

"Matt…."

"Mello, please…." If he could only curl himself up tighter, clutch his arms tightly enough to his chest, then the pain would stop, all of it. It would just go away, and he could sleep, and when he woke up….

Oh Christ, when he woke up….

"Matt…" Mello's voice sounded…like the old one. The old Mello…not soft, but quieter. "…I can make you forget."

Oh Christ, he _knew_. Matt's knees almost gave out.

"NO! Christ, Mello, please don't let me do this…." He clawed his goggles off, flinging them across the room. "I don't need it, I'm fine. I don't."

"Matt." 

"I don't."

He couldn't breathe. Then Mello moved, and a shimmer in his fingers drove Matt into panic, sent him backing up until he moved the table a few inches with his bodyweight. No…no, no, no, no, NO! He was trying to cry, he was trying to cry so hard, but the tears wouldn't come, they just wouldn't…

"Mello, don't…Fuck, I _want_ it, don't you…don't you get it, don't let, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" He lashed out, but Mello caught him like he was nothing.

Like he was nothing…nothing at all.

"Matt! I'll do it for…Stop it. Matt, listen to me!"

It took a moment to get through, but he was still fighting with himself. The face, the eyes widened, the smile faltered, smoke, and then static….static like on the T.V, white-noise that meant that he was dead, he was fucking dead and _Matt killed him_.

"MATT!" A vise-like grip wrapped around his shoulders, and Mello had never touched him like this, never. Mello had never…_never_ touched him. It penetrated the haze in his head. "Shut up, Matt…Come on…"

He stood there trembling, unable to cry and terrified because he couldn't. What if he never cried? What if no one ever cried for that man? What if…? 

"Matt, come on…it's me. Breathe." Mello was talking into his ear, and Matt slowly began to breathe. In…out…it would be fine. But it hurt so much…the voice kept at it, and it was something he'd loved. A long time ago. He remembered now. "That's it, man…come on…"

"Christ, I killed him…I killed them…"

"No…just him. It's okay."

"But he's dead."

"Shut up." The grip tightened on him slightly. "I'll give it to you, okay…"

The small bit of security the hold had offered evaporated. The morphine was taking even this from him? Matt pulled away weakly, moaning. "No, Mello…I don't need it…"

"I know. I know…I won't let you hurt yourself, okay?" No…no, it was not fucking _okay_. It would never fucking be _okay_…he'd killed someone, and now he wanted to take a drug to make him _forget_ it. It was inhuman. Matt started to struggle again, and Mello just weathered him out. "Matt, come on…That's enough."

"Don't let me do this."

"You're not gonna do this. I am."

"I'll take too much."

"I won't let you."

"I'll die."

"No, you won't. Come on, Matt…breathe." The low tones in his ear brought him back down, and at this point, he was too tired to do much more anyway. He gradually began to relax, glad to have someone forcibly pushing his scattered thoughts into a single direction.

He felt himself being moved, the sound of a chair scraping out, but when the arms loosened around his shoulders even for a second, he tensed immediately. He didn't trust himself, either. There was a moment of nothing, and then Mello sat down instead and just carried Matt down to straddle his lap. He protested once more, muttering against the fur collar of the ridiculous looking coat.

"I don't need it."

"Matt, that's enough." The grip loosened, and he stared numbly at his best friend for just a moment. Mello returned his eyes, and the contact was easier than it had been since the moment he'd turned around in the other apartment. For the first time in years, he felt he was looking at Mello again. He felt his arm being lifted, and his breathing picked up again, pulse racing. Mello paused, watching him carefully. "It's not much…just enough to take the edge off, and then some for kicks…right?"

"But Mello, I _want_ it."

He spoke quietly again, his eyes frowning. "…We can fix that, Matt."

Panic roared back to life at the thought, and he fumbled backwards, trying to escape again. A sudden ungodly pain in his knee stopped him, wringing a strangled cry from his throat. Mello's hand clamped like a vise over the injury, holding him in place with sheer agony. The grip lasted brief seconds, but it was a lifetime, and then he was being pulled forward firmly. "That's fucking enough, Matt. Give me your wrist."

"…Please Mello…."

"Give it to me."

He didn't move again, just collapsed in on himself, shivering and tired; he was too exhausted. Mello prepped the needle and picked it up himself. The cold metal slid over his skin to a point, and his entire body lit up in anticipation. He hated himself.

"Here?"

He nodded once, still trying to catch his breath, and when the needle broke his skin, a violent shiver ran down his spine. The morphine entered his system cold, and warmed as it spread through his blood. Mello emptied the syringe and glanced at him before pulling it out and setting it on the table.

The pain in his knee faded first. As the morphine hit his brain like a cloud of warmth, Matt stared Mello in the face, feeling himself begin to drift. With the rush came the daze, the heady feeling of sleep, and finally, Thank God, the _face_ went away. He tried to stay down, tried to open his mouth long enough to say thank you, but the words never came, just a small whimper. His chin dipped with the effort, and Mello pulled him forward as he fainted, holding him against his chest.

It was the best fucking high he'd had in a while.


	7. Coping

Was this punishment?

Mello asked himself again…he'd long lost track of how many times that made. Staring at the ceiling with his best friend crippled and stoned in his lap, he wondered to himself how he'd ever thought God would let him off easy. Didn't the Holy Father have a way of neatly back-handing him whenever he got out of line?

He supposed Matt was the blow this time around…he supposed his own stupidity hadn't helped much at all. What had he been thinking, pulling him in like that? If the idiot wanted to get worked up and thrash around some, Mello should have fucking let him. Instead, he'd pulled him into his arms, into his lap for Christ's sake, and there he remained. All he'd managed to do was guarantee another set of problems.

Like Matt's steady breathing against his throat.

Like the way Matt tucked his nose just under his ear.

He was a fucking mess, already walking on pins and needles until the call came that the Note had been retrieved, and this was, not, fucking, helping. Had he really fallen that far? Matt had just told him something unbelievably intimate, something that Mello had never even bothered to ask of him. It'd torn him apart, and he'd killed in Mello's name today…and still…. Still, Mello could think of nothing more than the way his voice sounded when he needed something. The way he'd _begged_, the way his eyes darkened, his voice lower, husky and desperate….

Son of a bitch, he was insane.

He was fucking insane.

Was this punishment, or simply a way to maintain his contact? Was he comforting Matt, or simply taking advantage of him?

Hell if Mello knew.

His back arched slightly as Matt's hands slid under his coat and up his sides, slow with sleep and taunting. Deciding that Mello was, in fact, the source of warmth, the hands slid around his waist and pulled him closer.

Fuck, this was a punishment; there was no other way to describe it. Matt's hips slid forward a few inches, and that contact became very real, very serious, and very, very distracting. Mello forced himself to exhale slowly, trying to think of something, anything other than the perfectly pliable hacker in his lap…because it would be so easy to lay him out right now, and….

And a mental backhand was in order.

The way Matt's knee had felt came to mind, and it did something for the arousal. There was obviously some serious damage that needed to be tended to…Mello had felt pieces move when he'd gripped it. It needed surgery, probably had since the incident itself. Why he'd never had it worked on, Mello didn't know, but it was dangerous to have bone that fractured go unattended. They could fix it these days…likely glue the knee cap together, and replace the cartilage with some kind of rubber disk….

If Matt didn't stop fucking _breathing_ on his fucking _throat_, so help him Mary….

How had he gotten himself into this mess…he'd pay all the money in the world for a decent explanation. He'd known that a breakdown of some kind was coming on Matt's part, because he'd been pushing him. He'd worked the hacker into the ground the last few days, and himself as well. Mello was used to the stress, but Matt had been surprised at the sheer amount of work it took to track down two targets and then keep the authorities confused long enough to get them on the plane. The director-scheme had almost fallen apart, but Matt's secondary conquest, the Sayu girl…that had gone much smoother. Mello's men had been in and out with fake IDs and weapons thanks to him, and had her back in the states in less than two days.

He'd actually come back to the apartment with the intent of interrogating the hacker on his recent contacts with Near. Apparently, Matt had been lying to him, to some degree or other. Near had been initiating phone calls with someone for months, hacking into a secure line to interrupt a caller before he hung up. Agent Ratt, Mello's informant in the SPK had no clue who it was, but an icon in the top right of the screens always showed up when the line was interfered with, and it was always the same image…a jackrabbit.

Mello had known about the Ghost…it was one of Matt's last great triumphs before L's death. It was his trademark symbol, and a salute to the Wammy bunnies as well. He hadn't really paid attention to it because he'd been so wrapped up in his schoolwork at the time, but the concept was neat. A permanent stain, like a watermark, that would appear whenever the Wammy mainframe was involved in any data transaction. The rabbit was a series of angular brushstrokes, rumored to be drawn by one of the other Wammy children, but no one had stepped forward to claim the art yet. If a single computer was online with the Wammy house, that mark would appear faintly onscreen, no matter the program or background that tried to cover it. He'd designed it because by the time he'd left, the Wammy House was the only computer system advanced enough to hack his own. Matt would be able to tell the second that someone, such as Near, tried to break his security, because the Ghost would appear on screen like a silent alarm.

Matt had tried to explain it to him, but it'd happened at the height of his war, and he'd brushed it to the side. It led to the long silences between the two of them, almost signaling Matt's refusal to try anymore. It was the start of the distance between them. All he could really remember was that it worked by intercepting the raw imaging code being sent to a monitor, grafting itself into the very image of whatever was being projected.

According to Ratt, Near's last intercepted call had been a little over a week ago…when Mello first decided to let Matt work with him. Ironic really, but Ratt had told him that Near was always the one to initiate the contact, not the other way around. Mello wasn't sure who was spying on whom at this point.

Matt shifted in his lap again, and Mello gritted his teeth. If he didn't move him soon, he was going to lose every scrap of humanity he had left, he was sure of it. He was already walking on thin ice, and his control was even thinner. If that made him a heartless bastard, then so be it.

He shifted and got ready to pick the hacker up.

XXXX

The first thing Matt woke up to was the pain in his knee. That was no big deal…he was used to that. It was an everyday occurrence. What he wasn't used to, was waking up guilty. The second he opened his eyes and took a conscious breath, there was something wrong, something very wrong, and fuck him if he could remember what it was. His mouth had that after-high cotton that he hated so much.

He didn't remember going to bed, but that too was a normal thing. As long as he woke up dressed, in a bed, he considered himself better off than he had been in his drinking days. There was sharp tang in the air, one that was at once familiar and foreign. The scent of alcohol was something he was no stranger to. However, considering that there wasn't a glass or bottle in his hands, it was only serving to make his parched throat that much more intolerable.

The ceiling blurred for a minute, and he paused, waiting on the dizziness to pass. The last of the morphine always left his system like that…either dizzy spells or random bouts of floating colors. Those episodes were always amusing.

When he finally got around to sitting up, the sight of Mello leaning against the desk at the foot of his bed stopped him cold. He blinked a few times to make sure that he was awake, but yes, that was Mello knocking back a shot of whatever he'd woken up smelling.

"'Sat vodka?"

"Tequila." Mello shrugged, holding up the bottle. "Didn't know if you'd had it before, but I figured you'd want something after last night."

"Last night…" Matt stared hard at him for a minute, and then the guilt clicked into place like a gunshot to his memory. He fell back on the pillow, wishing like hell that he hadn't bothered to get up. "Fuck."

"Yeah." Mello eyed him from his perch, shot glass in one hand. "You sober yet?"

Matt's laugh had no humor.

"God, I fucking hope not." Matt lifted his head from the pillow, a wry grin on his face. "Let's find out!"

Without warning he slammed a fist into his bad knee, and promptly hissed through his teeth, gripping the abused joint until his hand turned white. "Fuck…yeah…yeah, I'm sober."

"Hell of a way to find out." Mello took another shot and then poured one for Matt, crossing to hand it to him. Matt took it, swirling the gold liquid once before downing it. He stared at Little Preacher a bit longer.

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Getting there."

For some reason, that wasn't funny. Matt sat up slowly, inching his bum leg up as gently as he could. There really hadn't been a reason to push himself with the pain, and the joint throbbed steadily now, cursing him. Mello returned to his dresser, leaving Matt to the rest of the bottle. That was fine, great actually, until Mello sat down again and began staring at him. He became instinctively paranoid when Mello looked at him like that.

Once, a long time ago, Mello had trouble making eye contact with anyone, especially people he dealt with directly. Matt had been one of the few people he actually made an effort for. Mello made eye contact when he was happy, depressed, pissed, or when his mind was somewhere else entirely…when his thoughts were so far away that he couldn't be brought back to himself. The last was a common occurrence towards the end of his time at Wammy, when Near drove him away. Usually, he could deal with that kind of look because it had nothing to do with him.

However, every now and then, that look wouldn't fade away completely. Sometimes, Mello would watch him, and it would drive Matt crazy because he knew that somehow, there a fraction of Mello's genius that was concentrating on him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Mello wouldn't talk about it, but he was so quiet afterwards that Matt almost felt guilty for asking in the first place.

There was something in that stare that Matt hated. It was more what lie behind it than anything else. There was an age in those eyes that spoke of real pain, real hardship. Something he'd had since he was seven, Matt supposed.

It was the kind of pain that made it worse. The kind that said someone had been messing with his head, fucking around with his heart and soul when they had no business playing with them. Matt took a swig and sighed to himself. Those eyes saw everything that he tried to hide, and then some. Perhaps even things that Matt himself didn't see. Mello accused him of being perceptive, said that that's why he hated Near so much… but Matt just knew how to read people. He'd had a lot of time to study people in his life, because there hadn't been much real affection for him to cling to. Affection was in the expression, the tone of voice, and the eyes.

Seeing real affection come into Mello's eyes had surprised him when it first happened…he remembered the day very clearly. It was the introduction to chocolate that finally cemented Matt as a friend in Mello's eyes, he thought…and literally. After that day, Mello wasn't as afraid of his smile anymore, though he still trouble smiling back. With the two of them starved for attention as they were, it was nice to finally have a _person_. Matt's parents had always been busy, and the monastery…well, the monastery could fucking burn in Hell as far as Matt was concerned. God only knew how badly they'd fucked Mello up…and even now, he was still working to get past that side of Mello, to get around those walls they'd built to keep him out. He'd seen it once…just once…and he felt it was worth seeing again.

They'd had their problems…they'd been careful. In the end, things seemed to even out for a while…until Near became an issue. That's when he'd started losing 'Little Preacher'. Near drove him away, robbed him of the warmth Matt had spent four years putting into place, and he was left with the same cold eyed stare he'd gotten when they'd met. The one that said that he'd closed himself off from everyone and everything. The one that made them strangers, locked even Matt out.

The one he was getting now. Tension wound its way into his chest, because he couldn't read those eyes. He had no idea what exactly was running through Mello's mind right now, but he was very much aware that it could have been anything, and that he had something to do with it. It was strange. He again tried to coax him into conversation.

"How long was I out?"

"About a day." Mello responded quietly, crossing his arms and regarding him with a level stare. Matt shifted again, uncomfortable.

"You didn't have to stay."

"I didn't." That was almost insulting, but Matt supposed he had to have left at some point to get the alcohol. He licked his lips, but fell quiet. He looked at the door, instead of meeting that gaze. Mello's voice surprised him. "I was fifteen when I first killed a man."

"That's not long after-"

"I know." Mello cut him off, and Matt winced a bit. The alcohol was warming his stomach, and he took another drink while Mello continued. "I won't say it was an accident. It was just after I met Kyle Block, the mafia cousin in New York. Cousins stand aside from the Dom, more the right-hand men than the bosses. I needed money, and I needed a place to stay. I needed to lie low and still be able to keep my ears open. Kyle took me in because he got me drunk the first night he met me."

"How's he doing?"

"He's dead. He was the pilot on the passenger flight."

"Oh."

"First father figure I ever had in my life. He started letting me run the smaller jobs, mugging, collecting money from the shops we were extorting at the time. Went along with this one job…me and a couple of the boys had to knock up a late payment."

Mello was still staring at him, but Matt wasn't sure if he was really paying attention anymore. The blues held his own still, however. Matt couldn't look away.

"It was an old man…just an old badger like Rodger. We walked him into the alley and beat the hell out of him. It didn't take long for him to find the money he owed us. It was wild…to have that kind of power. It got into my head like a drug, left my heart in my throat. It was always over too quickly. There was never enough time. They were always weak…so damn weak. Some fought back, but it only took a little more pain until they fell, too, and begged. It was something I was good at."

"…Why'd you kill this one?"

Mello returned to his eyes, his focus again on Matt. "He called me a faggot."

Matt looked away, shivering. He suddenly didn't want to hear this. Hadn't that caused Mello enough pain already? Christ must have put a kick-me sign on his soul at birth, or something. The warm tequila was probably the nastiest thing he'd ever had in his life, but he took it anyway. The beginnings of a buzz sounded in his ears. Mello just wouldn't shut up.

"It scared me." His voice sounded almost hollow, as though reciting something he'd long ago memorized. It was a bastardized version of his prayer-voice, the soothing sound Matt was accustomed to hearing Proverbs in. "It scared the hell out of me, because up until then, I thought no one knew. The man probably didn't, but he called me out in front of the boys. There'd been whispers, rumors, but no one had confronted me directly on it. And now, a bleeding old coward spat it at me like poison. I don't even remember pulling the gun, and the shot itself seemed unreal. He was scowling at me, his nose broken, blood and piss on his face, and then he didn't _have_ a face anymore."

Mello blinked slowly, dropping his eyes to the bottle in Matt's hand. "Kyle was furious."

"Here." Matt offered the bottle again, but Mello shook his head.

"I never planned to kill him. It was my first taste of real fear. I'd done something that couldn't be forgiven. Even in the monastery, as a child, I always knew…knew that while they'd abuse me, they'd never kill me. My life was safe enough, though hellish. I was alone in the city, and I had no one to answer to but the organization that makes a living killing people. I had to go back to an apartment each night, and sleep with seasoned criminals. It wasn't an easy time for me.

"I didn't go back that night, and that only made Kyle worse. When I finally did get back, I found myself locked out. I went homeless for three weeks before I was forgiven. Time enough for the body to be hidden and alibis to be established, I later learned."

"Where'd you go…during those three weeks?"

"I spent most of them on the bench across the street from a church. I didn't go in. I didn't need _Him_, or His condescension. Finally earned my way to Hell and I'll be damned before I apologize for it."

Matt stared at him, then closed his eyes and rested his head against the headboard. "Is there a reason you're telling me this?"

"To keep from saying I told you so. No one _handles_ murder, Matt. It's nothing so trivial…that it can be 'handled'. I think you get that now."

"Yeah."

"You remember much about it?"

"Not really. Morphine's a little funny like that."

"Good. Regardless of what you tell yourself, it's better that way." Mello leaned down to pull his boots on. Matt was still a far cry from drunk, but he had enough left to pull it off. The thought of the hangover didn't sit well with him, but at least when he was drunk, he could stay awake, maybe get some work done. There was a lot to be done…he still needed to withdraw his system from the compound before the site was discovered. In fact, he should have done the second he…if he hadn't locked up like….

It was twenty four wasted hours.

He frowned at the top of Mello's head, still thinking about his earlier remark.

"Why didn't you stay here? Really, I mean."

Mello looked up sharply, but Matt continued, idly swinging the tequila by the bottle's neck, refusing to look back at him. "You don't lie to me. I've noticed that…but you didn't want to tell me why. I could tell."

There was a long moment of silence before Mello spoke again.

"Let's say I'm not a nice person and leave it at that."


	8. Stress Relief

AN- This story is taking a pause until the 3rd, in order for my beta to pass a major test with her sanity intact. Best luck to Anja-chan! I will not beg for reviews...but I will ask nicely.

Please review?

(throws a couple cherries on that)

Step lightly,

Kani

XXXX

The Notebook.

He hated it already, and it wasn't even in his hands yet. He'd yet to lay eyes on it, but already the reports were coming in, his phone ringing off the hook as one by one, esteemed Mafia leaders fell gasping to their knees. Snydar was following his instructions on the plane and had already taken care of nine of them. All confirmed dead within a minute of the name being written. It was power…raw, unadulterated power.

It was also a bomb.

With a pen, a crayon, a pencil, hell, possibly even his blood, the entire organization would kneel humbled at his feet. With a few strokes of ink and lead, victims, witnesses, enemies, allies…all dead and gone, forever silent in the ground.

Just a matter of time until Rod tried to take it from him.

Shit.

Mello stood under the hot water with his head down, braced on the wall as he sorted through his problems. His control was still tight enough to warrant his next few moves, but Rod would have to be dealt with…and likely paid. The man was a natural mercenary…money was the blood in his veins, and Mello was just convenient. It wouldn't take long for the big man to convince himself that Mello was a waste of time, unnecessary.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, wincing as it snagged in the water. He'd been in here too long…Matt would wonder if he'd drowned.

Fuck Matt, he wanted his shower.

He stood up straight and stretched before sitting down on the tub floor. The steam had long ago fogged the mirror, and the door was locked. Nearly two hours he'd been hiding in here now, and he didn't give a damn that no one else in the complex would have hot water tonight. He needed to think, and needed to do it while Matt was drunk and quiet. His rosary hung from the door knob, turning slowly in the air.

The Death Note was viable. It was solid, real, and on its way to California. Any moment, Snydar would land at the airport, Rod would pick him up, and the three of them would rendezvous at a small bar in the back alley behind St. Anthony's Church. There was no point in being late, and no advantage to being early, meaning that for once, Mello had to rely on other people to do their jobs right. It was insanity, and drove him to his long shower.

While it didn't keep him from thinking about it, he couldn't very well pace the apartment naked. Better Matt didn't pick up on his nervousness…there would be hell to be pay if the hacker thought there was even a slight chance that something could go wrong. Neither of them were fans of trusting people, but with all the work Matt had put into the project, Mello would catch hell for leaving it in the hands of two people he wasn't entirely in control of. He was stressed enough on his own without being bitched at.

_Shit_.

Tension in the organization was climbing every second, with the far branches already turning their eyes to California because of the random-ass plane jacking a day ago. Rod was one of four major states that had not yet been affected by Kira's sudden 'attention to the mafia', and with the commandeering of the flight and the subsequent death of Cousin Block…there were suspicions that needed to be silenced before they were even voiced, and quite a few more people that had to die. The mafia survived because it was paranoid, and nothing was too wild to be impossible…especially since Kira stepped into the scene. If all went well, they'd chalk it up to Kira getting a lucky bit of information.

The fucking water went cold.

He snatched the tap off and stood; his mind still far away. The curtain raked aside, and he reached blindly for a towel. He still needed to take care of the Puerto Ricans, the Cubans, and the Nevada state branch that controlled the extortion on the casinos…they had money and they could become a problem. Mello had a solid base of about twenty people that were the heart of his branch here in California…men that were actually blood ties or had worked their way through the ranks to the Dom's personal assortment. The rest were practically in pocket, meaning that as long as they were getting paid enough they would retain some kind of loyalty. Mello was still getting enough money from Wammy to ensure that he could buy back a few, but it was important that he didn't lose any to begin with.

…And if Rod decided to tip ranks on him, he was royally fucked.

Rod was influential, because he was a shrewd business man. Granted, he wasn't as shrewd as Mello himself, but he was good enough that he could get along fine without Mello's assistance. Mello's genius afforded him some headway because the plans and calculations that took him minutes to an hour would take Rod three to four days to put in place. At the moment, Mello was efficiently making the organization money.

However, Rod was also a vain man. He enjoyed his position of power, and Mello worked hard to maintain the illusion that Rod was the one leading them all along. Sadly, Rod himself knew better, and there was nothing Mello could do about it. It was part of their agreement, that he'd do most of the work, and get a fraction of the credit. In a world ruled by Kira, that was actually the better half of the deal and he wasn't displeased with it. Rod didn't trust him, however, and while it was true that as a rule, Mello trusted no one, Rod was his one worry. The loyalty in the Dom's assortment was not to be trifled with, and he walked a thin line. As long as Rod backed him up and he continued to impress the thugs, he was fine, with some of the greatest hit men in the Western Hemisphere eating out of his palm…it was all whiskey and cigars.

If Rod dropped him however, he either had to kill the Dom and make an example of him, or he had to leave town, and quickly. With something as heavy-handed as the Deathnote in his grip, there could be no more sudden deaths and replacements like he'd done before. The situation was too fragile.

He pulled his baggy slacks on and unwound his rosary from the door. He was due at the bar in an hour, and he had little to nothing to fill his time with until then. Slipping the rosary over his head, he resigned himself to boredom and stepped outside in a cloud of steam, toweling his hair.

XXXX

"Fucking HELL, Matt!" The clatter of plastic on the hardwood stopped the hacker's blood in his veins, penetrating even his sluggish thoughts. More than a little drunk, he stumbled up to find Mello on his knees just in front of the couch, trying to unwind a cord from his ankle.

Matt's Secondary Back-up laptop lay bleeding on the floor…or for all of his comprehensible thought, it might as well have been.

"I _told_ you to pick this shit up!"

Oh god, his computer. The hacker dove for it, flipping the screen open and fumbling wildly for the power button. "I swear to God, if you broke this, I'll-"

"Fuck you, man! Get this shit off me!"

There was feeble beep and the system came to life, apparently unharmed. He didn't have time to sigh in relief, because Mello punched him in the arm. Not the playful 'Shut-up' punches he used to get, the real fucking deal, and he felt his arm go numb from the shoulder down. He almost dropped the computer again, and with roughly fourteen straight shots of tequila in his system, he did the most logical thing that he, as a genius, could think of.

He backhanded Little Preacher.

"Don't mess with my system, you fucking prick! I swear to _God_, I'll kill you!"

There was a moment of tense silence, in which the towel slid from Mello's bare shoulder to the floor, unnoticed in his shock. Matt held his wide eyes for a moment before yanking his goggles into place and stabbing in a diagnostic code to check on the system. His fingertips hurt from the force of the slap, and his entire arm was already beginning to throb. Son of a bitch…fucking _Mello_.

Quite suddenly, the left side of his face exploded in a rush of white-hot pain, sending him to the floor with all the grace of a bag of trash. The laptop hit the ground a second time, and even over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the clatter of plastic, and a resounding _snap_ of something breaking. God only knew what.

Matt saw red.

Or some form of it, really… he was so drunk it might have been purple.

Matt was _pissed_. He pulled himself up to catch the following right-hook rather nicely across his ear. Sound compressed into a high whine, and then his ear popped with the sudden change in pressure, sending an unforgiving strike of pain down his neck that was so powerful, it locked his shoulder up as well.

He kicked, catching Mello square in the stomach, but damn him if that didn't hurt too. He realized through conflicting endorphins that he'd kicked with his left, and therefore damaged, leg, and the pain was so shocking it clouded over his other aches and left him breathless.

Mello grabbed his ankle and twisted it sharply, wringing the old injury for every drop of pain he could. Matt's alcohol-induced adrenaline rushed suddenly had a real base to draw from, and when he swung this time, it was with a closed fist. He caught the blonde right across the mouth, raking his knuckles over teeth. He didn't give him time to respond, pulling him back by the shoulder for another, low on this cheek. His nails bit into bare skin, skin he'd actually never touched before, and he supposed it was a baptism by fire of sorts. Matt was a brawler, not a trained fighter, and even drunk as he was, he realized that if Mello managed to get to his feet, this fight was over.

It was in his best interest that Little Preacher remained on the hardwood with him, then, and he still outweighed the punk by a good fifteen, maybe twenty pounds.

Easy fight…an easy fucking fight.

God, he really was drunk.

There was a slick pain in his gut that could have been Mello's knee, he wasn't sure, but he was suddenly airborne, crashing onto his back with enough force to rob his lungs of air. He stared dimly at the green ceiling for just a moment; then Little Preacher appeared in his line of sight and promptly kicked him in the stomach. A wave of nausea took him at the second blow, and he dry heaved for just a second before he was able to actually draw a breath again. Sickly pain signals traveled over his skin in waves, a pins-and-needles feeling that left him with a cold sheen of sweat on his brow. He wasn't sure he would be able to stay awake and win the fight, much less get up and gloat about it afterwards.

He dimly realized that Mello was drawing back to kick him again, and that he was on Matt's right side now…the side with the good leg.

Matt took his shot, catching Mello dead on between the legs with his sneaker. There was blank moment of shock on his face before the gunman's legs shook and gave way, sending him to his knees.

"…F-Fuck."

Indeed. Matt suddenly found himself at once disadvantaged and not. He was drunk as hell, and while he was coherent enough to realize this, he also knew that he was just not thinking fast enough to win a brawl with another genius right now…especially Mello. However, he had just bought himself about thirty seconds to figure something out before Mello could think straight again.

He rolled his head to the side and saw that Mello had left his gun holster on the coffee table a few feet away. With roughly twenty seconds left, he found himself faced with another question…a really big one.

Did he have the balls to bring a 9MM pistol into this fist-fight?

Something in his mind said no, but the alcohol said _hell yes_, and he scrambled for it. His bad knee hit the ground first, bringing a string of his favorite expletives from his lips, but he was still moving. He grabbed for the belt and missed it the first time, the leather swinging idly from his fingers. He snatched for it again and pulled it off the table, his hands immediately fumbling with the leather clip. There was tense second where he couldn't breathe, and then the unfamiliar feel of the pistol grip slid into his palm.

Then quite suddenly, there was a blur past his eyes, and Matt couldn't breathe anymore. His air cut off abruptly with the tightening of something thin and strong around his throat…likely one of his USB cords.

He froze, fighting off panic and Mello's knees settled on either side of his rib cage, the added weight making the lack of oxygen almost unbearable. There was a low voice just behind his ear, one full of the fire that Matt _still_ wasn't used to hearing from Little Preacher.

"Drop the fucking pistol, or I'll garrote you right here."

Matt couldn't hold onto the gun if he wanted, and it slipped to the wooden floorboards. Immediately, the pressure lightened until he could gasp; his air intake much too shallow for comfort.

"Didn't expect that from you, really…" Mello almost chuckled, but Matt was far from laughing. The cord was still tight around his throat, like a fucking collar or choke chain.

"Now slide it away, because if I get my hands on it, I'm going to shoot every piece of hardware in this apartment before I put you out of your misery."

Matt slowly reached forward and shoved the gun as gently away as he could, moving it a few feet out of range. "Good…now let's have a little chat, shall we? You seem to have forgotten a few things."

"Fuck you." The noose tightened briefly, making Matt stiffen.

"You are drunk. I don't recommend pushing me right now." Matt rolled his eyes and tried to put his head down on his arms, only to find that he was denied the more comfortable position. Mello held him up on his elbows, head back and unable to move from that spot, forcing him to listen to that fucking _voice_.

"We're gonna sit here until I calm down a little, understand? You're valuable, so I don't want to kill you…however, consider this little venture of yours a bottle down the drain. You are a junkie, and a fucking cripple to boot…I don't know what possessed you to pick a fight with me, but it was not your brightest idea."

"'S called Tequila, jack ass."

"No, it's called a lack of control. It's not my fault you're drunk."

"Hell it isn't…you bought it for me."

"Shut the fuck up for a minute." There was shift in the cording as Mello transferred it to one hand and pushed him down; releasing him from that Goddamned back-wrenching curl he was in. He pulled his goggles off and tried to catch his breath, almost missing the muttering above him. "Why haven't I killed you yet?"

God, he was drunk. So fucking drunk…he chuckled into the floor and shot back without thinking, "'Cause I'm valuable an' you want to fuck me…the same as always."

Mello's free hand fisted into his hair and cracked his forehead sharply on the floor.

Matt's last coherent thought was that Mello didn't actually _deny_ it.

Fucking _Mello_.


	9. Alone

Mello opened the door to find Matt on the couch, nose deep in his laptop with a bottle of superglue. The corner of the casing had cracked during their fight earlier…nothing serious, hardly enough to be noticeable, but it was something that he was not expecting forgiveness for. The fact was driven home when Matt glared at him sullenly, smoothing the clear liquid over the plastic with a pen knife. When he was finished, the damage would hardly be visible. Matt had been repairing his own equipment since he was eleven, and if Mello remembered correctly, he was the one who actually gave the hacker the knife he was using just for this kind of thing.

Matt seemed to remember too, and wiped the blade clean before putting it away, refusing to use it anymore as he slipped into a full-blown sulk. Mello really didn't give a damn. There were more important things on his mind…like the SPK. At the bar, three things had been decided…the Death Note would stay at the Mafia's headquarters, in the custom safe in the basement. For now, Rod, Snydar, and Mello would be the only ones who knew it was in Cali…they'd bring the others into it once precautionary measures were taken. There were also dates to be met. If Snydar died in twelve days, plans would have to be re-evaluated and changed.

There were rules involved with using the notebook, something Mello hadn't expected, but wasn't surprised by. He was prepared to work around them, however, even if that thirteen day one was a bitch…and the one about burning the note and dying.

Until the meeting his spirits had been considerably lifted by his little fight with Matt. Fighting relieved his tension better than anything else, and while he hadn't ended the match on fair terms, he didn't regret his final blow. Not in the least.

However, once at the bar, things had taken a spiraling drop. Already, Rod was talking about moving in on the other branches, setting himself up as head of the entire organization. It would take weeks for the initial excitement to pass, and the stupid ideas to be silenced. Luckily, after a few beers, Rod had mellowed out into a more acceptable partner, and the negotiations had begun. It was decided that Mello's SPK informant, Agent Ratt, would gather as many names as he could and call Snydar with them. The call had come in half an hour later, as penned in the notebook, and they'd been surprised to learn that there were only seven members. Still, it was like Near to form a smaller team than expected…he was a reclusive bastard. Of the seven members, only two names were available besides Ratt himself.

And while it wasn't enough to suit Mello, it was something at least.

It was decided that the other two would die of heart attacks, and that Ratt would shoot himself…as per Mafia custom. Rats were given the option to kiss their pistols once and only once after they were released from prison…if not, the Family would exact their own revenge. As far as he knew, Ratt had shot himself in the head at roughly 8:03 that evening, just after the other two hit the floor. Which, in short brought Near's attention to him, and very, very quickly.

And up until then, he'd forgotten about Matt entirely…and furthermore, Matt's recent communication with Near.

This put him into a rather dangerous, if quiet, mood.

So he really didn't think twice about walking into the kitchen and upending a bottle of morphine into the sink, just like he'd promised he would before he left. He didn't think twice about snatching up the black case and yanking the zipper open so hard it broke in his fingers. He damn sure didn't think twice about walking back into the living room, stabbing his couch cushion with Matt's glass syringe, and then pulling his pistol and shooting the God damned thing to get Matt's attention.

He certainly had it, at this point.

Glass ranging from larger pieces to fine powder radiated from a lovely hole just behind the silver needle cap, which still lay imbedded in the fabric. His ears rang with the gunshot, but he wasn't really worried about it. Slowly, he shifted the pistol up, moving his sight from the shattered syringe to the center of Matt's forehead. Wide green eyes went wider.

"Near. Talk." The barrel hovered so close that it grazed the skin on Matt's forehead, and it didn't waver. Adrenaline inspired both by his irritation with himself and the look on Matt's face curled through his stomach like the hacker's morphine, but his hands never twitched.

"What the fuck man…."

"You've been talking to Near, and I want to know about it."

Perhaps it was just because he knew Matt, but he could see the hacker making a mental decision to clamp down on his panic. His breath came a little faster, but his words didn't shake.

"I told you, Mello. It's not-"

"I'm going to count to five." His freckles stood out handsomely when he paled…it made him look slightly younger. Or maybe that was just fear in general…Mello liked it either way. His finger shifted to rest under the trigger guard, on top of the explosive button itself.

_Now_, Matt's voice shook a little.

"What the _fuck,_ Mello?"

"Matt..." Mello rolled his shoulders once. "Talk to me. One."

"Mello, what the hell are you doing…."

He leaned back into the couch, away from the gun, but Mello placed a foot between his knees, rested his other elbow on it, and trapped him there. "Two."

"Mello!"

"Three."

"Fuck…_fuck_, okay, he's been tapping into my blue calls."

"Your what?"

Matt was snapping at him now, nervous. "The medical calls to Wammy, Dipshit. I told you about them; it's how I schedule my morphine shipments."

Mello's gloves creaked as his grip tightened on the trigger. "So he knows where I'm at."

"No…no, he doesn't. He-"

"How can he _not_ know where I'm at if you've scheduled something to be _delivered_ here?"

"Do I _look_ like a fucking idiot, Mello? The calls are dispatched to random safe-houses in the network…It's completely blind. He doesn't know where you're at."

Matt's eyes dropped to the left and back up, just breaking contact, and sheer fury shot up Mello's spine at the small mark. He snatched a fistful of Matt's shirt and pulled him forward. The barrel repositioned itself just under his chin. "You're lying. How much does he know?"

"I don't know!"

"How much, Matt? Tell me, or I swear I'll leave you to bleed out while I pack."

"…Nothing more than the city." Matt's eyes went kind of sad at that, refusing to look at the gunman now. "Get off me."

"Where is he?" Mello lowered his voice, the one he used when he knew Matt was trying to ignore him. Matt _couldn't_ ignore him…ever. He'd used it at Wammy's to make the boy go to bed when he exhausted himself, but…Wammy's was a long time ago, and he wasn't exactly feeling charitable. "Come on, Matt."

Matt gave him a baleful glance, but answered him easily enough. "New York City…"

"Matt…." Mello turned his chin back with the barrel, looking him in the eye. In truth, he was enjoying this display of power far more than he'd ever admit, to himself or to the hacker. "Don't ever lie to me again…no matter how small it may seem, don't do it. Next time, I really will shoot you. I'm playing too dangerous a game for you play the field against me."

"What's going on?"

"When did you last talk to him? And I know more than you think I do, so it's in your best interest to be honest."

"I don't know…about three weeks ago, when we had that fight."

"What was said?"

"Why don't you call him yourself?"

"Matt."

"Mello." Matt's hands came up and shoved him away…or tried to at least, Mello hardly budged. "You won't shoot me…this time, at least. Cut the bull."

"You seem to be under the impression that I'm asking nicely."

"Either shoot me or get that thing out of my face. I'm sick of you pretending you don't know who I am…especially when you do it so that you won't feel guilty about something later."

Mello almost dropped his gun, but then again, he'd forgotten who he was playing with here. Matt had always known exactly what he was doing, and why. Perceptive bastard. There was a quiet pause, but Mello let his…no, _the_ hacker's coat go and lowered the pistol.

Matt sank back onto the couch slowly, and it dawned on him that Matt was still sober…and likely would be for a while, until Mello calmed down enough to get him some disposable needles.

Matt was staring at the shattered glass with an unreadable expression. His voice was still slightly shaken, though. "God, you're a piece of work these days…he asked how you were. How we were doing. That's it. Chewed my ass for still ordering my fucking drug…just like the rest of the world."

"Anything else?"

"I don't remember damn it!" Matt pulled his goggles down and rubbed his eyes, sighing. He glanced back up to see Mello staring at him and snapped. "Look, fuck you man…that was almost a month ago. I've been working my ass off, in case you've forgotten. I don't remember."

Mello nodded once and put his gun up.

XXXX

An hour later, Matt was still staring at his ruined syringe while Mello slept. His stomach hurt, just lightly, but it was something that he hated…hated because it was the start of something else that he couldn't control.

The term Morphine was derived from Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. The drug itself was taken from the poppy plant, a small flower that was fairly easy to grow in the right climate. It smelled sweet, and came in a few different colors, like red or white. The sap of the flower, when properly reduced, created a substance so addictive that it had been driving the drug industry for thousands of years. Opium, the black sap that lured one's mind into darker places and left it to thrash as it drowned. It directly affected the central nervous system, acting quickly at the very source of pain and pleasure. It came like a tide of warmth or the tingle of a sleeping limb before sweeping conscious thought into the background of sensory overload. It was at once clarity and disjointed chaos.

It let him fly while he suffocated.

The pain came again, just a sharp cramp of the stomach. He hadn't eaten in a day or so…he allowed himself to believe that it was just hunger pain. He _told_ himself that it was just hunger, nothing more.

Matt knew better.

The night flew on, and it was nearing three in the morning now, the beginning of his third day after the murder. The moon was in the window, and while it didn't stretch far enough across the floor to reach the couch, the glass glittered. It mocked him, as it lay there shattered and unusable. His glass syringe…his _only_ syringe.

He didn't have another.

It'd been almost forty eight hours since his last shot. He was dry, so dry that his knee screamed without movement or touch to provoke it. Pain radiated up his leg, wound claws into his thigh that he couldn't pull out. His heart was a hammer, breaking its way through the joint with every beat…and he wished it would just stop. Just for a little while, he wanted it to be quiet. It ignored him. His stomach cramped again, and he winced, because it was longer this time. It held on so long that he wrapped his arms around his middle and held his breath, because he would not cry out.

He wouldn't make a fucking sound.

Mello would not know.

The pain upped his heart rate, which forced more blood through the mangled tissue of his knee, which hurt like hell and made his heart beat even faster. A vicious cycle he'd endured once, and swore he never would again. But oaths were just words, and they had little to do with what the body demands. Words only affected minds, and even they were meaningless under the weight that was true pain. Pain drowned words, silenced voices and oaths and lies until they were nothing more than inarticulate sounds in the back of the mind…forced to the back because the _pain_ was just too _intense_ for such things to be _important_.

Nausea, a chalky-sour feeling in the back of his throat threatened to kill his self control, and instead of losing what little his stomach had to offer, he bit his tongue and rubbed a thumb over his gimp leg. The fire of the motion made him gag, but nothing passed his lips, sound or fluid. The cramp returned as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out, and there was little he could do but hold himself tighter and gasp for air that wasn't coming. Heat lit his face, bringing sheens of sweat to his cheeks, and then receded in a dull roar.

The pain remained.

With the sudden tightening in his gut, he confessed to himself that this was not hunger. This was withdrawal. This was his want…his need, kicking him in the ass, and he knew from past experience that it was just getting started. His heart in his ears, he realized two very important players that had not factored into his last match with the monster.

Mello and his disabled syringe. There were no other options…he had no choice but to sit here and take it. There was no way for him to get the morphine he needed to fend off the coming hell, and he _would not beg_.

He wouldn't ask Mello for anything. If he had his way of it…Mello wouldn't know. Mello would _never _know, and the bastard would sleep right on through the night, even if it left him convulsing on the floor as his body…

The pain clenched tight again, and it did not let him go. Hissing in a breath to keep a cry from breaking loose, he shut his eyes and waited. Nothing happened, his stomach content to lie there in its little knot. He tried to wrap his mind around the sensation, and quickly, because what was coming next was so much worse….

Mello wouldn't know, because Matt didn't trust him. Today, Mello had put a gun in his face and meant it, and why the fuck did Matt bother, really? He'd told him from the beginning that Little Preacher was dead, and all that was left was this…bastard in his place. Matt hadn't believed him until Mello looked him the eye and threatened to kill him. Until he abandoned him, here, on this couch, in favor of fighting everything he desperately wanted to become.

Matt believed him now.

Matt believed him because people died. He understood that. Mello was actually speaking his language again, because everyone died. That jackass in the helicopter died, and that was Matt's fault…and while Mello's death wasn't, it didn't change the fact that Matt was alone again.

He was so fucking _alone_…and _that's_ why Mello wouldn't know.

The ball of tension in his stomach ceded briefly, long enough for him to gasp in a breath before the tremors started. His teeth clicked together once, twice, and the shiver rolled down his spine to rock his every nerve with electricity. It shook through his fingertips, straightened his back, rattled over his hips…and hit his legs, where his live injury took the brunt of the damage.

He wanted to scream. Clenching a fist against his teeth, he struggled to breathe as the tremor died, eased and faded away. His knee had fucking _nails_ in it, he'd _sworn_ that he'd never do this again.

Words were nothing.

It started slowly, the heat rising in the base of his skull as his temperature spiked, rose until his vision blurred and his mouth went cotton. He braced himself, but there wasn't time…and nothing he could do even if there were. The hot flash broke, leaving him cold with goose bumps and then the smaller tremors started. His fingers twitched despite his fists, and his right leg shook with every breath. It kicked, once and he just closed his eyes and bit his tongue as his fucking other one did it too. Nothing serious, if he stopped to think about it, just his muscles working like a hyper child's would when bored…but every motion was a sawing impact on the bone and marrow he displaced when he'd laid the bike down.

That God damned bike….

He'd slid for twenty yards, his glove snagged on the clutch and his knee grinding between the bike itself and the concrete median. By the time the pain had broken through his haze and he'd pulled away, the small stone wall had ground the leather reinforced fabric of his riding armor away…which was fine, because that was its purpose. However, once it was gone, it had left him nothing for the real impact, which came when he gunned the machine in his panic and rear-ended the car in front of him. That hit almost sent him through their back window, and it ripped his glove free of the handlebars, breaking his wrist in the process. He'd managed to stay on the bike for another 200 yards before he listed to the side and then lost it completely. It was a Honda Virago…a small bike, or he wouldn't be walking, he was sure.

The last slide on the pavement was done without the benefit of his riding armor on his left knee…skin on stone.

The heat returned, and he slowly shrugged his vest off, trying to be rid of the extra weight. Everything was heavy, his eyelids, his hands…the sickly sweet tension of nausea returned, and he paused, waiting for it to pass. The hot flash broke without warning, and the tremors seized him again. Stifling a curse, he bit his lip until blood filled his mouth, but it was far overshadowed by the other pain. The leg twitched once, twice, and it was like someone was taking a hammer to his kneecap.

He spent twenty minutes cycling through his symptoms, waiting for release or death, whichever came first. Then the real withdrawal struck.

Oh, God, he fucking _wanted_ it.

The craving, which was usually just a dull ache behind his thoughts, exploded into something that hated him, something with a vendetta. With it came the shakes, the pain, the nausea, the hallucinations…and the despair.

His hands shook as though he was walking the tundra barefoot, and even while his teeth chattered, his shirt clung to the sweat on his chest. Panting, he ripped the striped thing off and threw it across the room; hopefully out of his line of sight because the last thing he needed right now was something that induced dizziness. The tension began building between his shoulder blades again, and he tried not to tense, because fuck, that would just make it worse.

The tremor took him with enough force to arch his back and slip him off the couch to the floor. A heady rush of adrenaline and pain ripped the air from his lungs, and he didn't know if he was screaming or not, but either way, he couldn't _breathe_….

His leg, which trembled of its own accord when he was dry anyway, shook violently, and no…no, he hadn't screamed, because he could feel his voice when he groaned quietly now.

Oh, God, where was his morphine?

He weakly tried to pull himself back onto the couch, and instead raked his hand across the cushion and the shattered glass. It bit into his bared fingers where the gloves left off, but he didn't have time to register the sting before his addiction ripped him in two. He curled over his stomach, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and it felt like something wanted out, just wanted the fuck _out_, and he couldn't _take_ that, it hurt so damn _bad_….

"Oh, Christ…." It didn't sound like him, but it was, and if that didn't drive how far he'd fallen up his ass, he was a lost cause. This is what he'd been reduced to, a shivering, sweaty heap on the floor of some shitty apartment, with a man who didn't give a fuck if the sun came up tomorrow in the other room, oblivious.

God, he wanted it so badly. He knew where it was, and lacked the physical strength to get to it. He'd down the entire damn bottle just to say that he'd gotten it when he wanted it. Just…just take the fucking cap off and drink it, then and there, fuck the needles and shit.

Shit, he needed it. He fucking needed it, and when his eyes watered, they weren't tears…they were Morpheus raping his mind. His eyes welled, spilled, and he couldn't see anymore, his vision hazy. He blinked, but they just kept coming, trailing across the bridge of his nose to the floor… and then the winding tension started again, tightening his spine, and he just let it.

A rattled exhale passed his locked teeth as the tremors took him again, and his leg was straight but it hurt anyway. It kicked, bucked, defied his every screamed thought, and the pain came back, and it _came back_. He was on the bike again, listening to the sick spongy sound of his flesh grinding away, watching through orange plastic the black smear of blood he was leaving behind on the pavement. Bone wrenched, caught, snapped, and he was off the bike and still moving, but it was _bone_…it was fucking _bone_….

On the tremor's fall came the rise of the pain, and he curled even tighter, his breath hot enough to mist the floorboards as he rode out the tension in his stomach. He flinched as the pain took him, and he was going to go _insane_. Stark raving mad, until they either put him away, or killed him. Oh fuck, Mello, wake up and shoot him, because he _needed_ it.

He _needed_ it. Needed it so _fucking, bad_…

But with blood on his tongue, he couldn't cry out. With cotton in his throat, he couldn't breathe...and with pain in his mind, he couldn't think.

Words were nothing.

There _was_ nothing else. Nothing but this, the poison he was begging for, that he hated, that was killing him, and _Jesus Christ_, here it came _again_….

The tension began building between his shoulder blades…

And Mello didn't know.

That random thought, if nothing else, was what pulled the maniacal laugh from his chest as he dissociated, forcing the world away so that he didn't have to think about the _pain_ anymore…

And then the fucking voice broke through and pulled him back from the edge of his blackout.

God _damn_ it.


	10. Playing with Fire

"What do you want?"

The hacker could barely manage that, and Mello supposed it was meant to be biting sarcasm…not the pathetic, nearly whispered question it sounded like. The shakes receded into something less violent before his eyes, though whether it was actually fading away or just Matt's stubbornness forcing the issue, Mello didn't know. His hands twitched like dying animals on the side of the road. He'd managed to sit up before Mello made it fully into the room, pressing his back against the couch for support. His fingers were sticky with blood and glass. His bare shoulders and back glistened with sweat.

He looked like hell.

There was a moment of silence while Mello stared at the top of his red mop, wondering about his expression. It must have been something painful, because he was hiding it away like it was his virginity or something of equal importance. Shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his shoulders, he took a step forward, hesitant because he simply didn't know how to handle this.

"Take your shot, Matt."

"No." He raised his head, and Mello came to a complete stop, heel still in the air. His eyes, tear-bright and almost black in the dim light, pegged him with a fury so complete that Mello wasn't entirely sure Matt was himself at the moment. His lip was worn ragged, likely half intentional damage, something to keep the darker pains in the background. It welled, and he licked it away.

He looked beautiful.

Mello swallowed, keeping his expression as blank as possible. "Why not?"

Matt flashed him the bloodied hand. "Because this was my only syringe…I don't have-"

The tremors came back, perhaps his control slipping, but his teeth clicked shut and there was silence as he hid his face in his arms and rode the wave out. Mello watched the way his frame quivered torn between fascination and nausea. He knew what it was like to ride out a medication of some kind, because he'd never handled them well himself…and yet he had no idea what Matt was going through at the moment, and he knew it. It wasn't a matter of coming down from a buzz, it was an addiction…something as mental as it was physical. While Mello had his own addictions, they were entirely of the mental persuasion.

Slowly, he left the doorway and stepped into the room, pausing to note that the window was open before padding past the miserable person on the floor. It was a warm summer night, and Matt smelled of sickness and sweat…not the most pleasant combination, but one that Mello was accustomed to in his line of work. Matt would need to shower as soon as this was over, or else he'd feel like shit until he did.

The thought was random, fleeting, and it was annoying as hell. He didn't care that Matt wouldn't feel well…he almost didn't care that Matt felt poorly now. It was his own damn fault for getting addicted to the shit in the first place. It wasn't Mello's place to think more or less of him for it…it wouldn't change anything in the long run. Matt had an addictive personality seemed determined to try everything once before he died, and he'd always been that way.

He slipped into the kitchen and pulled the cabinet open, lifting the bottle carefully to avoid the tell-tale sound that would bring Matt from his stupor. It was almost like Pavlov's dog whistle. He stood there considering the glass vial for a moment as he decided how best to cross the line of his 'place' to keep Matt from either going insane or dying on him.

A half-strangled cry made him glance towards the door.

The fine print had a suggested milligram-based dosage, but it was labeled and distilled for intravenous use only…it was far too concentrated for ingestion. The warning label took up half of the instructions, and he wasn't willing to concentrate long enough to read it in the dark. Matt would kill himself if he managed to get his hands on one of these bottles, that much was obvious, and left it up to Mello to find a second option. Dilution, perhaps?

"Ahhh, _fuck_…." The voice was muffled, and he dimly imagined Matt biting his arm in the effort to stay quiet. There was some part of his mind still functioning properly, he knew. It was one of the great curses of the added mental capacity. It meant that somewhere in that haze, Matt was still trying to preserve himself, and his dignity. There was a battle raging that Mello could neither understand nor access, and in truth, he wasn't in the mood to right now anyway. The clock on the microwave mockingly clicked to four A.M., the green light garish in the dimness of his kitchen.

He didn't imagine the drug would taste very good on its own, and he pulled a glass from the next shelf and shut the cabinet door as quietly as he could. The refrigerator's light made him hiss in a breath, and he snatched the tall clear bottle from the door blindly, nudging the freezer door shut after. The vodka bottle was cold enough to burn his palm, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from the gears of his mind, and as he reached the living room, he was graced with the sight of Matt viciously palming his gimp knee in an effort to avoid something…the set of his shoulders said it was nausea. It was fairly barbaric, but as long as it worked, Mello wouldn't say anything. He made a mental note to get him in for an examination as soon as possible.

"Morpheus, I'll fucking kill you…." Who the hell was Morpheus? "…Fucking…murder you in…."

The odd little twitch that killed that sentence was probably as painful as it looked. Mello sighed quietly…it felt like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years…and while he was used to sacrificing hours to work, it grated on him sometimes. He moved so quietly barefoot that the hacker gave a violent start when he raised his head to find Mello easing to the floor in front of him.

"Mello?"

The name made him pause, but the vodka bottle clicked onto the floorboards as he placed his back to the coffee table and stretched his legs slightly, placing a foot on either side of the hacker before him. The second, smaller bottle he kept firmly in a fist, still unsure of how to approach this.

"Mello…." The glassy look in his eyes was frightening. "Mello…Mihael…Michael…angel…."

"I'm not an angel Matt."

The hacker didn't hear him. "Defende nos in proelio...defend…"

"…us in battle." Mello finished. The hacker nodded, the movement disjointed and slow as his brain skewed the commands it was being given. It was pathetic.

"Never want to meet an angel."

The sentence was more carefully formed, likely accessing thoughts the hacker had locked away for some reason or other. Mello took the distraction to hide the morphine bottle behind his shoulder on the table. "Why not?"

"A wing in the blood of pain…painful worship. Heedless idolatry, devotional scapegoats…never want to…meet an angel. They'd…" He paused to lick the blood from his lip, his tongue pale against the bruised skin. "…be just like you."

"Like me, huh?" Mello tilted his head to the side, struck numb by the broken analogy. That was humbling, that remark. It was hardly a compliment, and yet worthy of…something. The hacker hid his mouth behind his arms, staring blankly into Mello's eyes for a moment. The connection was brief, and with a violent jolt, he buried his face in his arms and the small choked sound of pain from that pathetic living heap would be much more arousing under different circumstances. Mello pulled the cold vodka to his hip, unscrewing it with one hand as the short tumbler eased back into his other palm. "Would they be like me, Matt?"

A low keening sound was his only response, and he watched white teeth sink into bared flesh as Matt strangled another scream, the sight etching its way into his memory forever. He almost flooded the glass, and set the vodka aside, shivering as cold condensation left his fingers wet. The breeze from the window shifted his hair forward, and blew Matt's damply back. "Stop biting yourself."

Obediently, the teeth withdrew, but not before dark bruises carved half moons into his forearm. The shakes came back, and Mello sipped his vodka while the hacker trembled, noting in particular the way his bad leg locked. He supposed it was easier to deal with when he was in something of fetal position…it left little room for the leg to shift.

"Just like you, just like you, you and your fucking repentance…starving…yourself for…" The hacker gritted his teeth, and his head went back, Mello's eyes flashing hazily at the exposure of skin. He was a sick bastard. Sick, and twisted and….

"For what, Matt?"

"For everything…things that make us human." Matt met his eyes, and Mello felt that for the first time in the last half hour, the hacker was actually looking at him. "Denying yourself humanity because you were so fucking afraid."

The vodka was bitter across his tongue as he downed it. "Afraid?"

"Yeah…" The tone would pass for sneer if the breathless quality hadn't rendered it useless. "Yeah, afraid. Terrified…fucking…_angel_…."

"Well then." Mello regarded him quietly as he struggled to stay conscious, his eyes briefly fluttering in the threat of darkness. He poured himself another half glass and toasted it as Matt regained his focus. "Defende nos in proelio."

The warmth of the alcohol spread fire through his stomach, and Matt dropped his eyes to the bottle for the first time. The recognition dawning on his features was sweetly morbid, the light of a sick mind recognizing another crutch. Blood dripped from his lip unnoticed, running a black line down his chin. Mello felt himself shiver, and reached blindly for the bottle again, foregoing the glass in favor of his own need for a fix. The bottle was wet and cold in his fist, but the bitter, tasteless alcohol was more welcome than any drug Mello had yet to sample. He drank until his lips went numb and pulled it away.

Matt was staring at him, head down to one side a bit as he watched. His expression made Mello's blood freeze, because he'd never before seen Matt sober and needing something. Ever.

It was elation. Matt needed, and Mello could provide anything and everything that he wanted, everything that he craved so desperately. A heady rush of adrenaline took him, backed by the beginnings of a buzz as the high proof liquid began to spread its own warmth. He held the bottle at his hip again, shivering as cold water dripped to his skin above the hem of his cotton pants. Matt's eyes followed the bottle, and that was fucking annoying.

He spied Matt's cigarettes at the end of the table and pulled them over. Matt opened his mouth to say something, but it snapped shut, on his lip, as something wracked him again.

Mello set the bottle down and wrapped his cold fingertips around the fever-hot jaw so easily in his reach, snapping the hacker's head up and wringing a startled gasp from him. "Don't bite yourself again."

"M-Morpheus…."

"Isn't real, Matt. You did this to yourself." He thumbed the small square package open and pulled a cigarette from its depths. His other hand released his hacker as he leaned back and slid the tobacco stick between his lips, unlit. Matt froze, staring at him, at _him_, or perhaps the cigarette, but it didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter at this point, Matt's eyes were on his.

"I won't…ask." His voice shook almost as badly as his hands, and Mello relished the sound of it, despite himself…despite his every conscious thought screaming at him to get out, get the fuck out, what the hell was he_ doing_?

He didn't move.

The smirk that spread across his features had a mind of its own, because there was nothing funny about this situation, nothing even remotely amusing about fucking with Matt's head when he was in this condition. Nothing.

So what in Christ's name possessed him to pull the cigarrette from his mouth and tuck it behind his ear?

Hell if Mello knew, but it was done now and it might as well stay there. Matt shivered, Mello poured himself another shot of vodka and there was complete, utter silence for a few minutes. Aside from Matt's labored pants, there was nothing, but there _was_, wasn't there? Something poisonous.

"Angels…_Demons_…." Matt broke it later, trying to relax somewhat against the couch. Mello's fingers were numb with cold, but he brought the glass up again anyway, content to stare as Matt buried his hands in his hair and combed it through. "You made me so angry…made me so damn angry."

"It's a gift." Matt nearly flinched. Mello's eyes narrowed as he began clicking the lighter on and off, watching Matt and the way the tiny light played on his sweat-slicked skin. "What made you angry?"

"Your voice." The response likely would have been violent if Matt had control of half the brain cells his body was devoting to pain…but it was just as sad as the rest of him at the moment.

"You never could ignore me."

"Perhaps I just…didn't…_fuck_," There was a brief moment and something like a growl as Matt clenched his arms tighter around himself, curling inward at whatever was killing him. "…didn't try!"

Mello's tone dropped as he watched, and he couldn't have brought it back up if he'd wanted to. "Why not?"

"I liked it…it helped." Matt's eyes drifted open again sleepily, fixated on some point beyond Mello's shoulder.

"Are you ready for your shot now?"

Matt's eyes found his, sharp and clear, and Mello looked away now, swirling the last inch of his alcohol around the glass before knocking it back. He said nothing, but the stare continued, until Mello could feel it search him, creeping across his chest and throat until it returned to his eyes again.

"Are you going to answer me?"

There was nothing but a slight quickening of the hacker's breath, and it made Mello smirk at the little tumbler in his fingers. He set the bottle down and traced meaningless patterns in the water on the outside of the crystal, watching the water collect into larger drops. He finally looked up, watching the hacker's expression as he slowly reached back over his shoulder, his fingers nudging the bottle before they found it, and pulled it into view.

Matt stopped breathing.

Mello thumbed the metal rim, watching him carefully. "Tell me what you want, Matt."

Dark eyes flickered between him and the little vial of clear fluid, a tongue belatedly going to catch blood that was already dripping to his forearm…or perhaps that was a different reflex altogether. Mello felt his stomach tighten at the sight, regardless.

Matt still said nothing, and although every word he was capable of expressing at the moment was written upon his face, that wasn't good enough. Mello was in a mood.

Mello wanted him to_ beg_.

The desire came from nowhere, but that was a lie…it had been nagging at the back of his thoughts for a long while, unacknowledged. He watched Matt tremble slightly, but even his pain had taken a backseat to the desire that burned in his eyes…the need. The addiction, the want…the source of which hung from Mello's fingers, as cold as any gun he'd ever fired. It was a wanton thing, a bastardized version of his hacker that he faced now, someone reduced to whoring himself for the sheer memory of a pleasure he'd once had. Perhaps Mello was just feeding this addiction, dipping under it to play with his desires like a high-strung harp for his own amusement.

Oh, but that was a lie, because he was addicted too, wasn't he?

Worse than any morphine, because the drug was just that…a drug, something external, something that could be removed, worn out, stepped away from.

Want was something else entirely. Need was something else entirely. Desire…that was a part of who he was, and it seemed that not even God himself could save him from it. Not the threat of damnation, nor hell here on earth seemed enough to shake him from what he knew he wanted…what he craved…what was sitting less than a foot from him, begging for things unspoken in a different dialect of the same language.

It was beautiful lie, he had to allow, but it was shallow, a defense he'd long outgrown. Ignorance was no longer an option, because this was bitter, and sharp, and damn near tangible…it crept across his skin and left fire in his blood, something that he couldn't control, and something that he hadn't expected.

Fucking hell, this had been a bad idea.

Such a _bad_ idea.

"Mello?" Mello almost flinched at the tone, but he'd brought this on himself, hadn't he?

"Yeah?" The sound of his own voice scared him, something dark he hadn't heard before…God knew, the last few times he'd worked himself into this state, Matt had been _asleep_, not awake and _staring_ at him like…like this.

Matt said nothing, and Mello supposed that was all he was going to get. It was better he put an end to this now, before he did something stupid. He used a thumb to rip the small rubber circle at the top of the bottle, used to keep the contents sterile. It tore easily, and fuck, Matt was watching him. His hands shook a bit as he lifted the glass, letting a few drops pour into the tumbler to mingle with the remaining traces of vodka.

Matt snapped.

"More…."

Mello closed his eyes, exhaling raggedly and biting his tongue to bring the beast of his heart back to an acceptable speed. Fuck.

_Fuck. _

What the _hell_ had he been thinking?

"More, Mello…please, that's not enough." The hand shook until more came whether Mello was ready or not, but luckily just enough to be deemed an acceptable dosage. He set the bottle to the side, carefully out of Matt's reach, and reached for the vodka. The clear liquids meshed, crystalline and diamond like in the moonlight. Matt was shaking, licking his bloodied lip in a fashion that was decidedly _not_ self conscious. Mello's knuckles went white on the glass.

Matt didn't move.

That was good. He needed Matt to take this, and fucking _shut up_. He needed him unconscious and quiet so that he could maybe get out this with some of his sanity intact. Slowly, so slowly, as though he'd forgotten that Matt couldn't run if he wanted to, he curled his legs back and went up on his knees. He pressed the cool glass to Matt's lips and held it for him, tilting it slowly as for the second time, he administered the morphine to his little addict.

Oh, _fuck_.

Matt drained it greedily, and somewhere between the faint whimper of satisfaction he heard, and the small crimson streak that came away on the tumbler, Mello lost all hope of control.

He followed the glass and just _took_.

It was rough, almost callous, as nearly eight years of quelled desire ripped him apart. Matt tasted of vodka, blood, a sharp chemical, and something rough, something sexual. The wild thought that he could taste Matt's desire crossed his mind, but did little to slow him down. His hands forced his hacker's face up, shaking slightly, but Matt wasn't pulling away, and that was good…because Mello would likely hurt him if he tried.

His nails dug into damp skin, because he'd needed this…needed this for as long as he could remember. Maybe he deserved hell for taking this from Matt now, when he hardly knew what was happening, but dear fucking god Matt was_ moving_.

Nails, white-hot and sharp, clawed down across his shoulder-blades and left marks in their wake. He could feel the cool rush of air hitting was what surely blood upon his skin, but Matt's tongue twitched to life beneath his, and Mello almost died. He'd kissed people before, nasty wet pornographic displays of talent and power, so how in the hell could a single touch from Matt render him so completely blown? Why, when Matt's hands slid back up to his hair, was he unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to…oh Christ, he'd wanted this….

He'd _needed_ this.

This was worth hell.

This would be the death of him.

He pulled away dazed, unable to take anymore…he'd had his fix. He was going to pay for it later, but he couldn't do this right now. He just couldn't. Matt stared up at him, glassy-eyed, and Mello watched his pupils slowly widen as the drug took effect, the ball of tension beneath him releasing into something that resembled a human being. Matt's hands rested on his hips, and he felt the tremors ease, and fade away completely. Mello licked his lips, aware that blood was drying at the corner of his mouth from the abused lip. He wanted to lean in and kiss it gently…he wanted to lick at it, slowly, to taste more…he wanted to fucking bite it, just to see what sounds he could pull from this boy's….

"Mello…Mihael…Michael…Angel…Demon…I can't…think, I can't…._damn_ it."

His eyes closed like gates slamming shut, and Mello inhaled like he'd been drowning.

Rising shakily to his feet, he stumbled to the hall, knocking over the vodka in his passing.

He left Matt on the floor.


	11. Fucking Hangovers

"You're leaving again." It was a flat statement, dimly heard over the creak of the refrigerator door opening. The chocolate eased into his hand better than his pistol did. Mello didn't bother to reply as he toed the door shut and peeled the paper open. Matt sat at the table with a pair of tweezers, picking shards of glass from his fingers and casting withering glances in the gunman's direction every few minutes.

Fuck him, Mello had a hangover.

How much he'd had never mattered, and he attributed it to his metabolism. He'd never handled any kind of drug well, and when he stopped to think about it, alcohol was just another depressant. Thinking split his skull open right now, however, so he settled for jacking his blood sugar up as quickly as possible with the cocoa in his hands.

That first lick was heaven, even as he watched Matt extricate a rather large shard from his ring finger, the glass red and black with dried blood. He made a mental note to go and pick up some disposable syringes before he returned, because he'd already proven to himself that he wasn't capable of restraining his deviance anymore. He bit off a square and held it on his tongue, working it slowly as it began to melt. The chalky flavor soon warmed into something smooth and sweet and even the small stack of crimson glass fragments couldn't deter that. It hit his senses slowly, warmed him from within like the languid rush of sex or cigarettes. It was a bad analogy to make after waking to find the dark smear of blood from the hacker's lips still on his, and it was a bad idea in general to be thinking anything sexual when his back ached with the fine lines of claw marks.

He watched Matt idly tongue the swollen lip and wondered how much of it was his fault, how much of that sensitivity he'd caused the night before with his…insanity. Here, in the afternoon following, when there was sunlight casting a warm glow over the apartment, it seemed unreal. In the wash of warmer tones, reds and yellows making the hardwood glow and the dust in the air light up like tiny flames, the illusion of the night seemed misshapen, cold and brittle, even when it had been the warmer of the two in many ways. It not for the hard evidence, and the harder silences, it might never have happened. Mello might have retained what fraction of his humanity he had so jealously guarded in the past, and they could have continued in this broken semblance of their old relationship, content to exist and not to dig.

The chocolate smoothed and disappeared. The sugar hit his system a moment later, and the throbbing in his temples eased a fraction, though whether the relief was real or merely his wishful thinking remained to be seen. There was always the chance that Matt didn't remember what had happened…and that truly was wishful thinking, but Mello allowed himself that much, because wouldn't that be a neat, clean way to deal with his guilt? While it wouldn't dispel it, the noose of a darkened conscious wouldn't threaten to cut his oxygen off every time Matt glanced in his direction. If Matt didn't remember, there was no need to deal with the issue, and he could live with his side of the problem and never touch the parts that required them both. He stuck the corner of the candy in his mouth and sucked on it, refusing to acknowledge how ignorant he was really being. Yes, there was always a chance that Matt remembered, always a chance that the pain hadn't been as all consuming as it looked…as it sounded.

_Please, that's not enough._

Damn him if he didn't remember everything himself. Dear god, he wanted nothing more than to drag Matt to the bedroom, or possibly the floor, and reduce him to nothing…to break into him and take everything he wanted with or without the consent and consignment of his victim.

He'd stolen a kiss, and he was already contemplating rape. The realization left bitterness on his tongue that wasn't nearly as pleasant as the chocolate. No, no he wasn't that far gone, not yet. It was what it was, a mere contemplation, something to stir his blood and hopefully move the sugar faster, because bloody hell, he couldn't think straight otherwise. He made a mental note to just stop drinking entirely…a few shots were not worth this.

"Mello?" He remembered the hacker's expression the last time that turn of phrase had been presented to him from those battered lips, and it made something in his chest purr darkly. Perhaps even getting up this morning had been a bad idea….

But then again, his bed now smelled of cigarettes, and it was best not lie there and give in to his other, messier cure for a migraine.

Lead him not unto temptation, after all. "Yes?"

"I asked you when."

He hadn't realized Matt was speaking to him, and the chocolate returned to his mouth as he watched Matt put his lips to a cut along a knuckle that had begun to seep crimson again. The faint, haunting memory of another taste came to mind, and it would be rather easy to indulge it again. That would likely lead to a fight, however, and Mello wasn't in the Devil's good graces today with the way his head was pounding. Matt cut his eyes in his direction, still mouthing the weeping injury and that image was too much. It was easier to just close his eyes and focus solely on the sweet taste on his tongue now, not the one that had graced it when the hacker was doubled up in the floor, suffering…and Mello had _taken_ that, hadn't he? Had that been part of the thrill, raping the mouth he'd been staring at for six years like it had always belonged to him? Perhaps… but he wondered to himself why his insides curled in distaste at the thought now.

He was getting really good at this lying game. The bright red that marked the hacker's lips for a brief second before his tongue stole it away laced through him like a fine wine. Fuck it, he knew better…it was right there, and if the sound wouldn't have ripped his eardrums to pieces, he might have applauded the Trinity for their handiwork. Desire was frightening.

"Pay attention." It wasn't a request, it was a command, and any other time, Mello might have laughed at him for trying. Instead he found he rather needed the direction at the moment, because God only knew, his mind was someplace else entirely….

"I hate it when you stare at me like that."

Well…maybe not God only. The thought that Matt was in any way picking up on his thoughts was at once liberating and terrifying. It was…almost a vindication, if he were willing to stretch it that far. Matt was here of his own volition, and he knew…he'd known for a long time now. "I'm leaving as soon as my head eases up a bit."

"Good…that's plenty of time."

Yes it was, for all kinds of things. Fuck, the hacker was in his blood like an addiction, and he found himself craving something…something he likely couldn't have again, and so he settled for part of it. Stepping over to the freezer, he was surprised to find the vodka bottle well over half empty.

Perhaps he deserved this hangover after all.

"Just curious, where's your crucifix?"

The question made him pause as he shut the door, because he honestly didn't know. The small statuette that used to hang above his bed at Wammy's wasn't at the apartment…had he thrown it away? The fog in his head cleared somewhat, and no…no he hadn't, he knew that much.

Ah, fuck, it was at the Den. He could picture it, hanging in his floor of the building, above and behind his velvet recliner…it was a whim, a mockery, turning his back to Christ where before he had prostrated himself. He doubted anyone else in the business got the joke, but it never failed to make him grin.

"I don't have one."

"…Okay then." The hacker answered distractedly, wrapping his fingers individually in thin layer of gauze. Mello supposed the adhesive bandages were too bulky for the typing requirements Matt imposed on them.

He broke off more of the cold chocolate with a _crack_, letting it rest on his tongue again. Matt was taping his improvised bandages in place now. The hacker admired his work for a minute before reaching to pull his cigarettes, lighter, and cup-turned-ashtray over. The click of the lighter brought back an image, oh fuck, the sight of that light on his skin, warmer than moonlight and faint, weak….

This was shaping up to be a bad morning. One hell of a bad morning….

He had work to do. Decided, he let the chocolate bar hand from his teeth and pulled his gloves from his pocket as he headed out of kitchen. He glimpsed from the corner of his eye Matt tucking the cigarette into his lips, and he had to _leave_. Now. This was ridiculous.

"Hey, wait a second."

He ignored him, even when the scrape of a chair followed.

"I'm serious, this is important."

He didn't bother with his coat, but the keys sung as they were lifted from the bar. Matt's footsteps sounded almost normal, meaning he was doped, but not high. How refreshing.

"What?" The punch caught him as he turned, and he couldn't have ducked it even if he'd tried. The full swing knocked the chocolate from his teeth in a hiss of foil across the hardwood, his gloves and keys falling to the floor when his grip slackened at the pain.

"I _remember_."

…God _damn_ it…there was one of his more comforting theories shot to hell and back.

Right now, it felt like a ball of magnetized nails was ricocheting around his skull, so it wasn't too hard to let reflex handle the situation. However, easy did not mean intuitive or acceptable. Easy meant that it was not thought out, not planned, and by the time he'd turned, slammed the hacker into the wall and pegged both arms up behind his back, he was seriously regretting ever allowing reflex to wave at, much less snatch, his self-control.

But he had no time to think, suddenly presented with the back of Matt's head and the situation of some of his darker musings. "Not right now."

Matt, breathing hard in surprise with his cheek against the wall beside the door, stared over his shoulder. "What?"

"We're not dealing with this right now. I have things to do, and I can't…handle this. So drop it."

"Fuck you!"

Mello lost his patience, because so many things would just be too easy right now...even with his temper, he found himself wondering if the hacker's ears were sensitive, because it was inches from his lips, and he could just…_Christ_, he had to _leave_. He tightened his grip and dug his knee into the back of the hacker's gimp leg, relishing the way his back arched, bringing that throat so much closer to-

"_Listen to me_. You seem to be under the impression that I'm still the nice, sweet, _terrified_ little Mello you knew as a kid…and I'm not. I'm _not_. I'm sure we'd both like to pretend that it didn't happen, and I'm not going to make excuses for it…but I have things to do right now. I don't have time to sit here and let you bitch and whine and try to make sense of the fact that you kissed me back, and you'll just have to deal with it by yourself until I get done. When I get back, if you still want to start a fight over it, that's fine…" Matt was silent, fury in his features, and Mello dropped his voice, because Matt needed to hear this.

"But you'll _lose_. If you've developed a fetish for having your ass handed to you, then be my guest, I'll lay you out cold. You'll lose, Matt, and you'll have accomplished nothing more than a few bruises in the process. You were sober enough to realize what was happening, and you can't erase the fact that you reacted to me; no matter how much it galls your straight little ego. You kissed _me_…like some little cocktease, and I have the stripes on my back to prove it."

Matt was growling at this point, his own voice lower, quiet in his anger. "This isn't my fault."

"Not entirely…but if licking my tonsils isn't some form of consent, then I've raped a lot people, Matt." Mello was slipping, slipping quickly as he turned his head to the side, his breath and lips ghosting over the tight muscles of the hacker's neck and shoulder as he whispered, knowing Matt couldn't ignore him and milking it for some kind of recompense. "You drew blood, do you know that?"

"I'll do a lot more if you let me go, I promise."

The dark thing in his chest sank heavy claws into his thoughts, red flashing across his vision as he shoved forward suddenly, pegging Matt's hips to the wall with his own. He felt Matt stiffen, the hacker's breath catching as he whispered harshly against the vulnerable ear offered to him. "Don't _play_ with me."

Matt's voice was cold as he drew himself up straight, suddenly nervous, suddenly very less sure of himself. "Mello, that's enough."

"Yes, now that you're not in control, it's enough, isn't it? …Now that you don't have a choice but to acknowledge me. It's pathetic. You _know_…you have no excuses, and when you push me like this, that's exactly what it is. _Teasing_. Deal with it."

He dropped him, collecting his gloves. When he straightened again, Matt was facing him, fists clenching defensively as he considered continuing the fight anyway. Mello just regarded him quietly for moment, his fingers sorting through his keys without looking. Matt dropped his eyes first, and Mello took a moment to silently thank L for giving him the ability to tear people apart. It was selfish thanks.

He stepped forward and brought his hand up, slender fingers gripping Matt's chin and forcing it back…forcing him to acknowledge this, because it was better this way. It was better that he know who he was dealing with, no more illusions of his…angel. That boy had died in the streets of New York. This is what he was now.

"You can always leave."

Green eyes flickered to his and held them, furious jadestones that would not falter. No…he wouldn't leave, and the realization surprised him. Mello watched him for another minute, but he knew…Matt wouldn't leave again, not once he'd finally caught up. The time for that had passed, and he wasn't sure which of them was at fault for it. There was too much on the line now, murder, and blood, and Kira, and _everything_ on the path Mello had set for himself now included this skinny bastard. Fuck him if there was ever a time it hadn't.

Better to deal with that, than keep pretending that this would end one day, and he'd be free of this…of himself….

But right now his head hurt, and he had work to do. They'd deal with this later.

His thumb came up and grazed the bitten lip gently…it was hot to the touch, dark and bruised. He wanted to see it bitten again, under different circumstances…but Matt was pulling away, and he had to leave.

On impulse, his grip tightened, and the thumb swept roughly over the injury, pulling it open to well beneath his touch. Matt tore out of the grip, sneering in fury, but Mello was rubbing the crimson stain between his thumb and forefingers, watching the expression fade as Matt tongued the cut. His fingers came up in belated surprise at the taste of blood in his mouth, realizing Mello had undone the small healing he'd managed over the course of the night as crimson came away on his fingertips.

"I owed you." The glare was so hard it could cut diamonds, but Mello was brushing past him to the door now.

Later. They'd deal with this _later_.


	12. The Tangled Webs

AN- SOOOOooooo sorry for the long wait. It was meant to be a cliffy, but not a three week cliffy. I had serious writer's block with these two for a while. However, I'm pleased to announce that my internet is back, and to celebrate, I've made myself a Morning Star inspired avatar. Checks my profile! It's the Jackrabbit!

Step Lightly!

Kani

XXXX

"Matt, I need a number."

"_I don't give a fuck."_

"This is important."

"_Right…and after last night I should care why?"_

"Matt…."

"_No, really, explain it to me, because I fail to see how I owe you shit after you-"_

"Hack the White House."

"…_fucking touch…what?"_

"I need you to hack the White House."

"…_You know, tempting as that is, I'm still pissed."_

"God Damn it Matt, I'm not asking."

"_Fuck you."_

_Click._ Mello stared at the blank screen of his cell phone for another three minutes after the forty second call ended, debating on whether it was worth shooting something so that he didn't beat his hacker to death when he got back to the apartment. His self control won by a hair, because he'd rather not fire his gun in his room. It'd take days for the smell of gun smoke to clear.

Instead, he opted for biting his tongue and counting until he could hear himself think again, collapsing back into his velvet-lined recliner. He needed to call the president…he needed to call his contact in the SPK…he needed to make funeral arrangement for Cousin Block, he needed to break something… preferably in reverse order. The strings were pulling uncomfortably tight as he walked his spider web, a fistful in each hand as he balanced out his act, stretching it across the nation from this one, checker-floored room.

Surprisingly, the floor helped him think.

His hand shook slightly as he scrolled through his other numbers, wondering whether or not to call Yagami back today. The floor tiles did little for his headache, but there wasn't much else he could do but work through more chocolate and ride it out. His fingers hovered over the call button, but in the end, closed the cell phone and dropped it to the floor. He was in a fine state, this morning, to be sure. Head pounding, with nice bruise along his cheek from his…_chat_ with Matt earlier, needing to work and unable to bring himself to accomplish _anything_, much less what he _needed_ to…. He tilted his head back and stared at the crucifix hanging over his chair, Christ inverted upon his cross from his point of view.

He'd always found it amusing that Satanist cults took the inverted cross as their symbol…it was actually St. Peter's cross. The saint had asked to be crucified upside down, because he felt unworthy to die in the same manner as Christ himself had. It was a symbol of humility, hardly befitting a cult that prided itself in mocking God.

Why did Matt need a crucifix anyway?

"Mello?" The deep voice was unexpected, though Mello was restrained enough not to jump or pull his pistol. When Rod stepped into the room, however, Mello instinctively wanted his gun, his arms straying from the chair's arms to brace on his knees in an attempt to cover his paranoia and the rude gesture. He leaned forward as nonchalantly as he could manage with a six foot six mercenary staring at him.

God, the man was huge.

"Can I help you?"

"Not really." Rod crossed his arms, and Mello was awed by the sheer amount of muscle that shifted with that motion. Two shots to the head, as quickly as possible, if needed…perhaps another two to his shins so that he couldn't move…. "I was just thinking."

…Head shots, definitely. "About what?"

"Just…the business in general. You know how we are…we keep it in the family, closed ranks and all that shit."

The man's low timbre set Mello on edge on any given day, but the crystalline coolness and his choice words now made the younger gunman's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Yeah."

"Do you?" The man gave him a pointed stare, and Mello's blood ran a little colder. What the hell was he after, anyway? He didn't usually come to Mello's floor, deeming it prudent to give him space when he wanted it.

"Yeah, Rod, I know."

"Of course you do. So…who were you talking to?"

Shit.

Matt….

_Shit._

He hoped a vague truth would set him at ease for now…maybe buy them some time. "A hacker. Better than Snydar."

"You know him?"

"Yeah. "

"You trust him?"

Well, _that_ was a question, wasn't it? "…No. I don't."

"Good." The black man grinned, his white teeth a startling contrast with the earthen tone of his skin. His smirk seemed to capture the light, illuminating the shadow of the doorway. Mello almost reached for his pistol again. "I want his name, Mello."

The crucifix hung over his shoulder, high on the wall, and Mello was pretty sure that Christ was laughing at him right now, not weeping tears of blood. He didn't turn around to find out. Rod turned in the door and paused, chuckling.

"You know…just in case."

He wanted Matt's _name_.

XXXX

Matt threw the phone at the wall almost idly, refusing to even watch its course to the floor. Fucking _Mello_, with his arrogant fucking _temper_, and his cutting words that were still ripping _holes_ in Matt's _sanity_, and making him _fucking crazy_.

His fingers throbbed dully beneath their bandages, but he clenched his fists anyway, refusing to give in to his urge to pace. The dull glow of his computer screen offered little comfort tonight, even with the hypnotic rock that was filtering through the speakers. It filled the quiet like an awkward silence, the pregnant pause in conversation that no one can avoid, and everyone tries to cover. His notes lay open to one side, small neat handwriting covering every inch of the page in longhand coding and scribble. There was little that he could add, with half his mind far away, and all of his temper focused on something that wasn't even present.

God, he could _kill_ him.

Fucking Mello, with his perfect logic and painful truths…right now, Matt was pretty sure he hated the gunman. Right about now, in fact, Matt would like nothing more than to wrap his hands around his pale throat, and paint some lovely bruises there. Maybe not kill him, no, not at first, but he'd like to make sure that he suffered for a little while, that he couldn't swallow without feeling the ache of….

Fucking _Mello_.

He lost it, standing so abruptly that his knee twitched, locked, and gave, forcing him to grab the table or end up on the floor. The dull ache increased into something a little more substantial, because he was slowly going dry again. He burned through the morphine faster when he drank it, and the odd sensation of his stomach going numb was just altogether annoying. He was on his feet now, however, and maybe he should go ahead and abuse it some more, to avoid temptation when Mello got back. He would die before he started a fight. Just roll over and fucking _die_ before he'd give Mello the satisfaction.

Bloody hell, his knee hurt.

Just to push himself, he walked a few more laps before the track on the music player changed to something quieter and he found himself craving a cigarette. Hobbling and hating every step he returned to table and threw himself in the chair, slightly winded from the sheer effort it took to move these days. He wasn't even twenty yet, damn it.

The lighter flickered to life, and he inhaled deeply. The wash of hot smoke over his tongue was blessed relief, the cold taste of nicotine translating into an ease of tension. It was a mental addiction, he knew, because the nicotine hadn't had time to reach his bloodstream, but it was there, available, and that itself was a head-start on relaxing.

A helpless feeling of self-loathing made him close his eyes on the exhale, as much a part of the ritual as the first drag itself. He loved the addiction…it was himself that he hated for it.

He opened his eyes to watch his monitor flicker briefly as the jackrabbit appeared in the corner of the screen.

There was brief moment of silence, long enough for the thought of his system being hacked to freeze him in shock and then send him into a controlled panic. The cigarette hung from his lips as his fingers hit the keyboard, immediately back-hacking for a trace on the system that was interfering with his own. It came up as Wammy, of course, but the signal itself was routed through three or four different safe houses, projecting the commands through the main computer to utilize its power.

Freezing the hacking gate took a few minutes, precious seconds in which his system lost two of its custom firewalls, and to his complete surprise, three of his hidden tracking codes. It had come like a needle, breaking through minute cracks left in his armor before hitting the solid wall of his Standard Guard Functionaries…the primary firewall matrix he'd designed when he was twelve, and had spent the last six years perfecting. Nothing, meaning _nothing_, got through that wall. The hacker's feed died like a rat in a trap, its neck broken, threat over, done and _dealt_ with.

Near had tried to hack him.

The thought made him sit back and stare at his screen for a minute, forgotten ash falling from his cigarette to his lap. The kid hadn't honestly tried, he was sure, because the event had been over far too quickly. Which meant that it was merely an excuse to make contact with him…they'd had an unspoken agreement not to meddle however. Why would Near hack him?

He glanced over at his phone, staring at the small device silently while his system beeped at him, still crowing its triumph over the inferior program. Even his computer had an ego….

Why would Near hack him?

He leaned over in his chair, fingering the machine into reach and flipping it open. His screen was cracked but aside from that, no permanent damage had been done. Sitting it up straight, he glanced between his laptop and the phone. Why not just ask him?

That was point wasn't it?

…And, it would piss Mello off.

Yeah…yeah, that was worth it right now. The ghost of lips over his ear made him shiver, his stomach curling nastily as a snarl eased onto his features. Matt did not get _touched_ like that, not for _any_ reason, and not by any fucking _man_. It just didn't happen.

He gathered his wallet and a stray cord, connecting it to his system so that he could bounce the call from some random location. Florida sounded good…sounded really nice, actually. Wouldn't he like to be in Florida right now?

He flicked ash to the floor as he thumbed in the number on the card.

There was a moment of silence, and the line didn't ring.

"Code please."

"G224-078."

"Psuedo-Matt? Confirm please."

"Joy."

Another pause as the Wammy operative entered the keyword into the profile reference…he could hear a keyboard underneath the quiet sound of the woman's breathing. "Accepted, please hold."

"No…just wait."

"Psuedo-Matt, you'll have to wait so that I can connect you to-"

"Don't worry about it…just hold on..."

The line hitched expectedly, a sign that his call was intercepted. " Okay, doll, hang up."

"I don't understand what-"

"Just hang up."

She was well-trained, apparently, and let the call go without another word. There was a moment of silence…so long in fact that he began to wonder if he'd let her go too soon.

"Where is he, Matt?"

"What's going on?"

"Just tell me where he is."

Matt stared at his phone for a second, taking it away from his ear. More ash fell to the floor as he waited, unsure of how to handle this. Near didn't ask direct questions unless they were rhetorical, but the usually airy voice was tense. To hear any sort of emotion in Near's voice was an accomplishment on someone's part, and until this day, the only time he'd ever managed it himself had been when he was present for one of his and Mello's arguments. Debates, really, because Mello usually refused to raise his voice until the conversation was almost over. Still, if memory served him, and it always did, the tight undertone of the other prodigy's voice meant he was upset…angry, at that.

Near angry was a rare, and scary thing. It was something that he believed only Mello could handle properly, because Mello was usually the only one who could inspire the emotion in the first place.

So hearing Near snap at him now was just short of disturbing. He didn't feel too poorly about not knowing how to respond.

So he took another drag and asked again, "What's going on, Near?"

"He killed half my team."

"…What?" He hadn't intended to imply that Near was crazy, but he didn't retract the sentiment nor apologize for his tone.

"He, killed, my, team. Must I spell it out for you?"

"How did-"

"Come now, Matt, you're more intelligent than this. He's got the Death note, Kira's notebook."

Shock, surely, was the word to describe the cessation of thought in the hacker's mind. "He's not using it. He _can't_ be using it."

"There are three bodies in the morgue that say otherwise. Tell me where he is."

"No."

That was not the first thing that crossed his mind…that was not the first thing that he'd planned to let pass his lips, but it was out there, cold and unyielding now. It hung in the silence and Matt blinked slowly, pulling his goggles off to rub his eyes as he braced an elbow on the table. Where the hell had that come from, 'no.'? What fucking_'No.'_? Mello was killing people with that notebook…Kira's notebook. He was using it. He was…

"Matt…don't do this."

"It's a little late now." And it was, wasn't it? …The helicopter, that one screen, that one code, the image of his smile faltering, that fucking _face_….

"Matt."

"It's way too late, Near."

"You're better than he is."

"I used to be." Matt rolled the cigarette in his lips, staring blankly at his keyboard. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? He didn't need this shit, he could have anything he wanted…Kira didn't kill thieves. Kira killed murderers, and if he hadn't stuck around, Matt might have been able to avoid that title. If he'd just left when Mello told him to get out, he might have escaped all this, he wouldn't have to deal with any of it. He'd have been a free man. He'd have been someone else. "I used to be, Near."

"…You helped him take it, didn't you?"

"I have to go."

"Matt, do _not_ hang up on me. I need to know where he is."

"You need…to deal with it. This isn't a game anymore." Christ, wasn't he just a fount of wisdom. That fucking face….

"You're still going to help him, aren't you?"

Yes, and why? He didn't know. He didn't have a fucking clue. "Yeah, damn it, I _am_. Okay? We're all in over our heads, Near, and you can't just…you can't just chalk this up to some _game_ you're playing, a game that L _lost_, that you're going to _win_. There are_ people_ involved in this. Don't fuck with me because you forgot. Learn your lesson and get over it."

"You're better than this. Don't let him turn you into something you're not."

"You seem to have a better idea of 'who I am' than I do…."

"Don't let him do this, Matt."

"The conversation's over, Near. Clean up your own mess."


	13. A Confrontation, of Sorts

AN- O.o This chapter is twice as long as the last one, and I wrote it at Three A.M. You can ask my beta, she sent it back to me with lots of red pen-marks and a giant 'WTF?' stamp. It made no sense. So I fixed it, and here it is. Thank my beta, Anja-chan, for slapping me around or this would be a lot worse. As it is, you're in for a suprise, and KANIIII...You got some 'splainin to do!

God, I miss I Love Lucy. Random as hell, but ONWARD! O.O

XXXX

Mello opened and slammed the door and immediately turned around, digging his pocket knife out of his coat pocket

Mello opened, then slammed the door and immediately turned around, digging his pocket knife out of his coat pocket. The bullet from Matt's first night in the apartment was still lodged in the wood, and he hadn't thought to pull it out until now. However, he had maybe an hour until someone was knocking on his door, and he didn't intend to be there to answer it. Now was the only chance he'd get to clean the apartment.

The bullet refused to budge at first. Mello continued to work at it, his thoughts wandering. Rod had threatened him today, he knew it. While the big man was all about giving him his space at headquarters, he knew that he wasn't stupid enough let someone like Mello go unchecked through his city. His original safe-house had already been bugged, forcing him to move to the back up, and now…now, Rod had officially tipped ranks on him, and was about to start digging. The mercenary was methodical, professional, and Mello didn't intend to be here when his co-workers finally pegged the apartment. There was too much at stake. There had never been enough trust between the two to warrant the words severance or betrayal. It was all part of the job description.

There was a moment of vehement curses before he fractured the impacted area, pulling wood away from the shot and letting it fall to the floor. Ballistics had been his best course, and he wasn't stupid enough to leave a fired shot in position to be analyzed. Finally the small piece of metal came loose in his fingers. He tucked the bullet into his pocket.

"I talked to Near today."

Mello turned and stared hard at his hacker, who was watching him from the couch, his hands laced nonchalantly behind his head. He'd expected Matt to be more honest in the future after he'd shoved a gun in his face, but an outright confession was a little surprising.

…And ironically enough, he didn't have the time.

He kept his gloves on and closed the knife, deciding that at the moment, he had better move. They could have this conversation later…likely right before that _other_ conversation they were going to have… and neither were anything to look forward to.

"Actually," Matt drawled, tapping a cigarette from his pack, "The little shit tried to hack me today."

_That_ got Mello's attention. "And?"

"…And I stopped him. No big deal." The hacker shrugged, lighting the cigarette in his lips.

Minutes gone, the internal clock of his genius remarked, and Mello left the hall to pass the table and enter the kitchen. Matt's laptop sat open, his reduced system still sprawling and taped between the two largest rooms in the apartment. Twenty minutes, he guessed, to disassemble it and have it back in the hacker's army bag. He planned to give him fifteen. Ducking to the cabinet beside the refrigerator, he pulled out a small backpack and a folded towel. Five minutes.

The smell of smoke accompanied Matt to the doorway, and his even footing told Mello that he was again doped, but not high. He considered refusing to buy another syringe at all…this was an accomplishment. The hacker watched him from his position in the doorframe, smoke curling over his lips, and why the hell was he noticing that when he should be packing? Fuck, he should have shot the bastard that first night, and spared his door.

At least the door wasn't so God damned distracting.

He pulled a small black case from inside the pack and stared at it, having forgotten what it was. Recognition dawned, and he tore the zipper open and sifted through the tourniquet pack until he found what he was looking for.

Matt caught the leg brace in one hand, staring at it curiously.

"Put it on." It was all Mello gave in lieu of an explanation. He immediately opened the fridge, lined the pack with the towel and started moving his food and alcohol.

"I've been here over a month, and you _just now_ thought a brace would be useful?"

Mello didn't pause as he snatched the remainder of his vodka from the freezer and tucked it into the pack as well. "You weren't my priority."

"Ha…" Matt gave a sarcastic chuckle as he headed for the table, pulling the velcro support-straps open violently. "No, of course not. So anyway…."

Mello snatched the cabinet open, pulling the last two bottles of Matt's morphine out and shoving them into the pack too.

"Then I called him."

If only a pin had fallen in the silence after that….then Mello could have snatched it up and stabbed his hacker somewhere unpleasant. The red head merely smirked at his reaction, rolling his cigarette to the corner of his mouth as he strapped the brace around his gimp leg. "…And we talked for a little bit, you know?"

What the fuck?

"An interesting little conversation, really."

"You _talked_ to him?"

"Yeah."

"…What about?"

The hacker raised his eyebrows at that, leaning back on the arm of his chair, one hand clasped loosely around his own wrist as he regarded the gunman carefully. The nonchalance of his tone and action was very much at war with the deathly stillness in his eyes. Mello realized then that Matt was beyond pissed about something, and if he didn't know what it was, he was doubly fucked.

Ten minutes, his mind said.

"About his team." Matt finally supplied, and Mello's jaw locked into place. Matt wasn't supposed to know about that…fucking _Near_. "A couple of mysterious deaths, more specifically."

Mello turned away, tugging the zipper on the back pack shut. "Later."

"No. Not later." The cold voice was almost a rival to some of the more seasoned criminals Mello'd had the displeasure of dealing with, but it hardly fazed him. He strode past the table without a second glance, and perhaps he was a coward for ignoring such a deadly look, but he had shit to _do_. They couldn't start this fight, not here, not now, not with Rod-

"Mello, look at me."

"No. Not right now." He dropped the bag by the door and took off down the hall, storming and not giving a fuck if he was rattling the fans in the apartment below him. He stopped in the bathroom and opened the nearly bare cabinets underneath the sink. He had three towels, and a spray bottle of the kind found in the gardening section of a home improvement store stored there.

Bleach was useful, he'd discovered, because it ruined DNA. While it didn't erase the fact that there was, in fact, DNA present, by the time Rod's men got it to a reliable(meaning _expensive_) lab, the bleach would have made it impossible to discern whom it had come from. Mello was paranoid enough not to leave any trace of himself at headquarters, so unless Rod was going to waltz over and snatch a hair from his head, there was nothing for them to compare it to, anyway.

Mello pulled the towels out into the floor and took a moment to open one of them across the tile. Shampoo, soap, and the two or three other amenities were tossed onto the open cloth and wrapped up into a bundle for easier travel. The spray bottle received a quick tightening of the nozzle, and without preamble he began to spray the entire room down with the rank chemical. He made a mental note to wipe the door handles before they headed out, too.

He could hear Matt coming down the hall.

It would only take a few minutes to sterilize the room…he wouldn't wipe the bleach away because it would dissolve any DNA and fingerprints it encountered. Nothing went untouched, and while he would have liked to clean the drains and bleach those too, he was in a hurry.

"Mello, talk to me."

"No." He grabbed the bundle in a fist and pushed past the hacker, crossing to the bedroom. Under the bed lay a duffel bag, and that was thrown on top of the blankets, open and waiting to be packed. Everything he owned would fit in this one bag…everything. If he stopped to think about it, that was rather pathetic by most people's standard, but there wasn't time for him to muse over his lack of material wealth. It took a back seat to getting shot on any day of the week. He'd taken a bullet once, and it was not an experience he was looking forward to repeating.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Packing and waiting for you to take the hint." He replied tonelessly. It was better to ignore the issue with Near for now…they could deal with that once they were in a hotel somewhere. Besides, any comment he could make now would only infuriate the hacker further. Mello put a lock on his expression, going to the closet and snatching the four or five variations of his three basic outfits from their hangers. They would go in first, to pad his guns.

Fifteen minutes. Realization finally dawned on Matt's features.

"Shit…shit, my _system._" Mello didn't bother to glance up as Matt disappeared down the hall again, too busy with his own work. A second later, there came the distinct sound of tape being ripped up and the various chimes and buzzes of a computer going into hibernation. By the time he heard the careful clacking of computer pieces being lowered into the army bag, he'd taken the ammo out of his pistols and had them lined up neatly on top of the haphazard clothing.

Priority, in his opinion, was obvious.

He pulled the hunting knife from beneath the mattress and shoved that into the duffel as well.

"I suppose a little fucking _warning_ was too much to ask." Mello noticed that Matt had yet to raise his voice, a sign that he was truly and honestly furious…the last time he'd been this subdued was the day he ripped the crucifix from Mello's throat. That didn't bode well for 'later'.

That was not something to think about, not right now. He had shit to do.

The duffel soon found its way to the chemical room, where Mello disregarded everything but his tools. Those were hard to come by, and the rest of it would likely be deemed too volatile to move from the apartment, and set for an on-site detonation…especially with the bleach fumes in the air. He tightened a few lids and cracked the window as an early precaution.

Anyway, he might get lucky…one of Rod's boys might trip and save the government the trouble of a lengthy evacuation before blowing the building.

Twenty minutes gone, and if it hadn't been for Matt, he'd be walking out the door. That sent another stab of irritation through him, and it didn't help he walked back in to see the hacker only half packed. Granted, he was probably making better time than Mello had himself, but the fact that he was now costing the gunman a few precious minutes was annoying. Rod's men would not make introductions before putting bullets in Matt's skull. The mafia didn't do well with strangers. Mello knew that…Matt obviously didn't.

Matt had been talking to Near again.

Like the buzz of a wasp in the back of his mind, that thought came to clarity like a bell tolling. He'd not only been hacked today, he'd actually initiated the contact with Near. All the information that Matt knew, that he'd learned working from the _apartment_ alone, was enough to turn Mello's stomach. Now that he stopped and thought about it, Matt was almost a threat. It was enough to screw Mello over, and certainly enough to blow every carefully laid plan he had in place. The question was out before he thought about it, his promise to drop the matter forgotten in the wake of raging paranoia.

"What'd you tell him?"

Matt stopped; notebooks in one fist and random cords in the other, staring at him like he hadn't quite believed what he'd heard. "What?"

"Did you _tell_ him anything?" And Mello _needed_ to know. It wasn't a matter of being curious, it was everything he'd built, everything he'd done with himself, to work his way out of Near's shadow, to _prove_ himself…all of it was on the line now, and Mello had never handled that kind of pressure well. "I need to know."

Apparently, he'd underestimated just how angry his hacker really was, because in the time it took for him to blink, Matt had taken two steps and whipped him across the cheek with the USB cables. The shock of it curled all the way to his toes, a sharp, bittersweet pain that brought the world into sparkling clarity.

"Don't you fucking _dare_," he hissed, eyes on fire, but thankfully, still quiet. Mello brought his head back around slowly, his left cheek wet with blood from the metallic tips on the cord…a cord that he remembered wrapping around the hacker's throat and was considering doing _again_. "Don't you start that _shit_, you _killed_ them. What was the _point_?"

"If you ever-"

_Hiss_… The crack of lightening came _again,_ and his already abused cheek exploded in white-hot pain, the metal searing fresh cuts into his pale skin. His eye watered, and the expression on his face had sent grown men to their knees begging for mercy, but Matt met him….

Matt _matched_ him.

There was tense moment of silence between the two of them, blood running a warm, tickling line down to his jaw and under-throat. Perhaps he'd forgotten that Matt still abided by some frail form of a conscience, a moral code that Mello himself had long ago abandoned. Perhaps he'd forgotten that Matt, unlike Mello, still believed in innocent people, in unfair casualties and extremes. Perhaps, in the void of the distance between them, he'd completely side-stepped the _person_ that Matt was in favor of what he could do…of how _useful_ Matt could be.

Perhaps it was due time for Matt to snatch him back by the collar.

Mello's heart was in his ears, and at the moment, he didn't know what he wanted from the hacker, but it was certainly violent…he wanted _something_, needed to resolve this as much, if not more than Matt did himself. However, his fists remained by his side, his insults and rhetoric stabs kept firmly in check because perhaps…just _perhaps_…he'd deserved that.

Half an hour, said his mental clock… and fuck him if Mello could ignore it any longer. They had to _move_.

He shoved past the red head instead, intending to grab both his bags and run them to the bike…he didn't trust Matt enough at the moment to put them in his car. He'd known better than to open his mouth. A single word, quietly spoken and as heavy as hammer-fall stopped him in his tracks.

"Coward."

Mello stared over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"You're a fucking coward. You can't look me in the eye and justify those murders, Mello." Matt growled at him, cigarette glowing faintly cherry as ash fell to the floor. "You can't look me in the eyes and tell me that this is strictly about Kira. Not anymore."

"Matt."

"It's about him, too. Isn't it?"

Mello turned around, staring hard at the hacker who was trying to rip his soul to shreds with that spiteful expression. That was a look he'd never seen on Matt. Contempt…perhaps even pity, or disgust.

"Do you have any idea how pathetic that is?"

"We'll talk about this later." Later was going to _suck_. He never should have brought it up.

"No," Matt countered, tossing the notebooks aside and wrapping the cord around his fist once for a shorter reach, "We won't, Mello. Just like we'll never talk about that stunt you pulled the other night."

Mello was losing his patience. He should have left it alone. "Matt, we-"

"Shut _up_." The hacker took two steps forward and the manic glint in his eye made Mello take one back. The USB cord swung from his grip, metallic tips stained crimson, but not dripping…no, no blood to spare, that punishment was so swift and cold.

"We'll never _talk_ about this." The hacker practically growled; his voice quiet, full of molten metal and something bitter. "We'll never discuss any of this, because you can't justify it, and you will not _repent_. It meant _nothing_ to you. Not those people…not me…nothing. You don't _care_, and I'm sick of pretending you do. I don't give a fuck _what _you are now…I really don't. That kid I knew is gone, and you…you're nothing more than a coward. You're a shadow of what he used to be. You're worse than Kira."

Mello's eyes widened slightly.

"And furthermore…L would be ashamed of you. You're _nothing_ compared to what he was," Matt concluded dully.

There was silence, absolute and complete silence, before Mello found his hoarse voice.

"We have to go."

Matt stared coldly at him for a split second, before shaking his head, choosing instead to focus on his half packed bag. "Why do I bother?"

Indignation exploded in Mello's chest, because that sounded like a dismissal.

"I don't have to explain myself to you." The words burst from his lips almost unheard by Mello himself. It garnered him another glance, a distasteful meeting of the eyes. He felt sick to his stomach. "I never asked you to stay."

"Maybe I won't," the hacker bit off, shoving things into the army bag as the last of his system disappeared…his one hand remained fisted in the cord, an unspoken threat that Mello did not miss.

"Yeah." He licked his lips. "You will."

…And perhaps he was an idiot…a complete idiot for pushing the matter when common sense told him to just shut the fuck up and deal with it.

The response hit something deep, because when the hacker closed the distance between them, his fist rose, and the cord-turned-whip reared back. Mello allowed Matt's free hand to close over his throat, feeling warm blood slick the skin between. He felt the indecision in the grip, and in truth…he wasn't entirely sure himself whether he wanted the hacker to deck him or not. The blow never fell…the grip never tightened, though he could feel the hand twitch. He glanced once at the cord, bringing his hooded eyes back to Matt's almost lazily. Restraint glowed in those green eyes, a mental war, common sense the first casualty.

His mouth was dry, and he had to lick his lips before he could speak, because Christ, he had to say _something_, didn't he? "You have no idea what this is like for me. Having to keep this going, and keep you out of it. Having to keep away from _you_ altogether because somewhere along the line, I lost control."

Matt recoiled, something akin to hatred in his eyes, but Mello caught his wrist, holding his hand in place.

"You told me a long time ago, to stop apologizing for what I am. I finally have. I'm not lying about anything, not anymore. I'm not ashamed of what I want, or what I'm doing. So, don't be hypocritical Matt…this is what you wanted, isn't it?"

The grip tightened then, though the cord lowered. Mello squared his shoulders, refusing to flinch or give in to his basic desire to cause the hacker bodily harm. He was not afraid of Matt. Matt's eyes flashed a shade darker as he shoved Mello against the door in frustration. Mello allowed it, wanting this over as quickly as possible so they could get the hell _out of here_.

"I asked you to apologize for what you've _become_, Mello." His voice was darker, everything focused, intent, vengeful…and directed at Mello. Christ, they didn't have _time_ for this. "There is _nothing_ hypocritical about that."

No time for anything.

"Let me go."

"I don't trust you anymore," Matt replied almost thoughtfully, and why was he still touching him? Suddenly the contact seemed too much, overdone and he wanted away from it. Mello swallowed thickly under the palm over his life veins, too proud to pull the hand away and show that he was becoming nervous. Christ, Matt….

"Let, me, _go_."

The hacker's eyes narrowed. "And if I say no?"

Mello froze, his breath locking in his chest and refusing to move, because that was not possible. This was not happening. This was what dying felt like, when Matt shifted, just an inch, a scarce inch closer, and made the situation intimate.

They never touched, his only connection that smooth hand covering his wild pulse, betraying him just as surely as his expression. He felt the blood draining from his face, but then Matt smirked, his eyes cold and empty, and something just short of a fire, just shy of a raging storm hit his blood like a drug, because bloody hell, Matt knew what was… he was…he _knew_.

Oh _fuck_.

What was he _doing_?

Pressure, at his hip, and he glanced down to find Matt's hand there, cord forgotten on the floor, guiding him back to the door….holding him, trapping him against the solid frame, his hair snagging on the splintered wood of that first shot. He felt dizzy, unreal, waiting to wake up, but the hand slipped from his throat to his jaw, forcing his head up to meet the hacker's eyes again.

Matt _moved_.

The act itself was silken, the gentle pressure of another body against his fracturing Mello's already fragile grip on the situation. He felt himself shiver, his eyes closing as Matt pinned him to the door. The hacker's knee nudged his legs apart, just an invasion of space, and a tantalizing set-up for what was quickly spiraling into a dangerous situation. Mello's breath came faster, because just another inch, if he moved just so, there'd be _pleasure_….

Matt reached up and pulled the cigarette from his mouth, eyeing him carefully, and there was no reason for that because he had Mello floored. His cheek throbbed steadily, aching dully in the way that drying wounds do, dully reminiscent of the real world that existed somewhere else, somewhere where fear wasn't flowering in his chest, where his soul wasn't screaming, and where he didn't _want_. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

He _wanted_ so much more. He wanted those lips, those eyes, this lean frame pressed against his, he wanted it all. He wanted to bite, and pull, and taunt, and _Christ_, wouldn't it be sweeter if Matt started it? The notion shattered what was left of his conscious thought, leaving him a helpless, broken, aroused mess…and that was likely the hacker's point, all things considered. Matt knew, knew him, the darker secrets, everything…it didn't matter what he kidded himself, Matt had been there to build him up again after the abusive mess that religion had left him. Matt knew how he thought, knew what made him Mello.

Matt could break him, if he wanted.

If Mello let him.

And wasn't that realization terrifying?

Matt turned his head to the side and exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them, and tightened his grip on Mello's chin. There was a dull roar in the gunman's ears as everything he wanted stared him in the face, leaned in to…to….

Their lips barely grazed before Mello tore himself out the grip, gasping for air that had too long been denied him, fighting himself, swallowing the bitterness of absolute terror at what he was just…what had just...

Matt chuckled coldly, resting his forehead against Mello's hair to whisper in his ear. "You see? You fucking coward. It's not fun to have your head fucked with, is it Mello?"

Then the warmth was gone as the hacker pulled back and took a long pull of his cigarette, the tip smoldering almost as brightly as the jade stones burrowing their way into Mello's skull. The hacker was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was still deathly calm. "Don't ever touch me again. Are we clear?"

"Matt…." His own voice was something else entirely now, something he didn't recognize, bestial, and desperately gentle. "Don't start this game with me…."

"Maybe that's your problem, Mello. You think of it in terms of games. My only question is," He paused to shove something in his bag and exhale a mouthful of smoke. "…are you still so sure that I'll lose?"

Was he?

Five minutes…fuck, they had to _go_.

XXXX

AN- (writing next chapter) I'm 'splainin, I'm 'splainin!


	14. Repent

AN- Hello out there! I'm going to go ahead and say this now, start expecting slightly longer update times from me. I'm a student out of highschool, and I'm studying for my ACT. For those not in America, that's a major college-entrance exam, that I have put off for FAR too long.

Also, work has eaten me. O.o

I will never abandon any of my fics, ever. Ever ever **ever**! I promise! So while it may take a while, and there will be times when I find a week and update twice, and then two or three weeks of nothing happening...I'm doing the best I can, and so is my beta. Bear with me, guys, and wish me luck. Breathing seems to be a thing of the past.

2nd Edit- Also, another note...I just hit chapter 14, and there has still been no 'asplosion. I expected to hit that about...eight. My muses apparently had more angst planned than I did. Meh...

3rd Edit- Good God, I am TIRED. I am nit-picking my own chapter since I'm posting this edited version without permission from my beta-lady. I'm expecting the squeaky highlighter of doom to descend any moment now...

Kani

XXXX

Matt saw the cathedral tucked into the corner of a small park while driving through an older area of the city. The lone steeple rose to only three stories, modest enough for a Catholic church in downtown Los Angeles, but still striking against its grove of trees. St. Mary's was a rose-stone church, dusky red in color and older than most of the surrounding buildings. Through his goggles and the street light, it was crimson. The proud stained glass window that faced the street shone with light from within, peacefully welcoming to someone very much in need of direction. They came to a red light and Matt's fists clenched tighter on the steering wheel. The lights shone dully on Mello's helmet as he waited, one booted foot on the ground to support his bike. That damn bike…and that damn man.

At eighteen, he technically wasn't even that.

How did someone so young go so far astray? He asked himself that, and for a moment, wasn't sure to which of them he was referring. It made him take his foot off the brake and inch forward slowly until he bumped the bike's back tire. Mello almost lost his footing, and the gunman turned and cast what was surely a deadly glare in his direction. The power of it was dampened some what by the impenetrable tinted plastic of his helmet, however, and Matt responded by flipping him off through the windshield. Mello returned the favor and turned back around.

Fucking Mello.

Jesus Christ, his hands were shaking on the leather steering wheel. Some poisonous mix of despair and anger that he'd never experienced before coursed his blood like a virus, infecting every inch until he could hardly sit still for want of violence. Where he'd nudged the gunman before, he wanted to mow him down, or perhaps just push him along with his front bumper until Mello suffered the same fate as he himself had.

He resented the brace on his leg. Not just for the fact that Mello had let him suffer before conveniently finding the damn thing, but because it was helping tremendously. His leg still shook slightly, even doped as he was, but the…pain had faded away. He was aware of his discomfort, even if his brain didn't recognize the sensation of pain for what it was while under the influence of the morphine. There was the knowledge that he was feeling _something_, but nothing more. The brace was of decent quality, though he was sure that, for the first half hour or so at least, he'd have been screaming in the floor if he'd been sober. Now though, things had…settled into a more comfortable position. Pressure was relieved on damaged tissues because the brace forced them into a more natural placement, reforming his knee into what a knee should be like simply because of its design.

He knew that he needed surgery. He knew that it was just a matter of time until he messed around and a bone fragment lodged itself somewhere important, like an artery. He resented the fact that he still needed help. For a long time, he'd convinced himself that when the pain was gone, he was healing, and everything would fine. Every now and then, however, there was a moment of intense clarity that showed him just how much damage had been done, and forced him to acknowledge it. Putting the brace on had been one of those moments, feeling his cartilage re-align itself into something resembling a knee-joint. He knew that in reality, they'd likely have to re-break it before they could even begin to work on it…but it didn't hurt. Not right now, at least, he knew. When he went dry, or when the brace came off again, God only knew what hell he'd have to go through again, but for now…it didn't hurt, and he was fine.

It was humiliating. The self-consciousness he felt bordered a paranoid form of anxiety. People looked at him limping, and knew he was damaged, fucked up. They may not know about his drug at first glance, but give them a minute, his mind told him, and they'd figure that out too. The brace was the first open acceptance of his injury he'd ever allowed himself.

And it had come from Mello?

His mood was taking a major downward spiral, but with little else to think about but the fact that someone was coming to kill him, it was a one-track process of self-destruction at this point. In front of him, on a motorcycle of all the fucking irony, was the person he'd gotten into this shit over…and the one person that he could count on to bail when he needed him most. Behind him, somewhere in that steady maze of headlights and stop signs, were people that he didn't know, didn't care about, coming to hunt him down. His self-esteem had rather gone to shit at this point. Brooding seemed like a good idea…it at least kept him from killing a certain bastard.

People knew he was damaged. He hated it; it drove him fucking nuts to have to deal with that kind of attention, because no matter how subtle people thought they were being, he felt their stares. It was no different for a person with cerebral palsy, or brutal scarring. Damaged beyond repair, and fuck, he knew it…just like they did. People stared. People didn't know how to talk to him, and his sympathetic conversations usually only started after a brief silence…a moment to acknowledge that something was wrong with him, time for that to become abundantly clear before they snapped out of their haze and opened their god damned mouths. It was hell.

No, it was _a_ hell…one of many.

And Mello…Mello was something else entirely. The bastard had the sheer luck to know that everything he'd considered wrong with himself was just a figment of his fucking imagination. Mello had grown up believing that he was damned, that one day he would burn in hell for his attraction to other men. He _believed_ that, whole heartedly. It had taken years for him to outgrow the shadow of his religion, or at least learn to disregard the God that he'd feared for most of his life. It'd taken bloody _years_ for him learn to ignore the deity that seemed to be ignoring him. There was no tolerance for the wicked in his old world…and now…now he _was_ wicked, and God hadn't given him a reason to be anything less.

It was unfair, to say the least. It was unfair because the spoiled bastard had the option, the _pleasure_, of being able to walk away from his 'hell' whenever he fucking chose to. He had the ability to ignore what had handicapped him for most of his life, and no one to tell him differently.

Matt couldn't saw his leg off that easily.

Perhaps he was being petty. Perhaps his pride and paranoia were merely turning Mello into another focus for his anger and frustration, but fucking hell, it felt good to hate him. Every time Mello looked at him with that arrogant disregard, Matt could kill him. Mello's problems were in his head, and as long as he kept his fucking mouth shut, he could hide them…Matt didn't have the option of covering up his damage.

The roller coaster took another dive, because that was before he even _got_ to the morphine.

Despair welled like a flood in his chest, even as Mello's bike burned rubber in front of him as the light changed. The steeple drew closer. Matt hit the gas almost lazily, following the bike across the intersection as he entered the next segment of his personal hall of horrors.

The morphine…his sycophantic little addiction, his fucked up answer to paranoia…he knew that in reality, it didn't fix shit. He knew that, he did. It made the pain go away, but even then, in the darker corners of his mind, the ones that his genius brain simply could _not_ shut down, he knew that it was backward-assed answer. It was painted excuse, and a pretty lie to make himself feel better.

Perhaps he 'just didn't get enough love as a child'. He laughed bitterly behind the wheel as they caught the next light too, watching the set of Mello's shoulders shift into obvious paranoid irritation. He flicked ash out the window and sighed. Memories played tag with his attention, content to run with their new found freedom. It wasn't often that Matt let them loose like this.

It had started a long time ago with his school work. When his parents were too busy to spend time with him, he'd study. It was calming, to learn things, and know them, never mind how pointless they may have seemed at the time. It was idle work for a mind that was never idle. After that, there'd been attention, from Mello. A petty crutch, perhaps, something to bolster his under-developed sense of self-worth, but it was something. It was attention that he hadn't had before, interaction that he'd only read about in books or watched on television. Of course he was well versed in the ways of people, of what they wanted and how they expressed themselves. His childhood was a quiet, uneventful, lonely one, and the only affection he'd ever received had been distant at best. 'Rich' didn't equal 'doting' parents and while he'd had everything any child could ever dream of…shiny toys were worth nothing when one had no one to play with. They gathered dust while he'd played on the computer, working on countless projects, all self-imposed as an instinctive need to keep his sanity. So being with Mello, having a real person there, had been the best thing that ever happened to him…it encouraged him to grow, and to learn who he was, and not just what he was capable of. Genius was a meaningless term until he realized the full portent of the word, with all its glorious isolations and limitations; with its incredible opportunities and insights. He read Mello like a book, because in both mind and body language, Mello was by far the most conflicted, _interesting_ person he'd ever met. He relieved Matt's boredom, made himself a part of Matt's daily routine, and eventually, became Matt's first friend. That had been fine. Just fucking dandy.

The cigarettes were a whim. An honest to god 'Here's a rule I can break.'" It had been his first serious mistake, though certainly not his last. He stared at the cigarette in his fingers with a fond disgust, content to write them off as another of his idiosyncrasies.

He supposed that, all things considered, his last mistake had been walking back into a particular person's life after years of isolation. It hadn't taken long, but they'd become different people by then, even if Matt had been too stubborn and immature to admit it. Mello left him at Wammy's without a goodbye or an explanation. He'd just disappeared one day.

He'd said goodbye to _Near_.

He toed the brake in a sudden haze, and a horn sounded somewhere behind him.

Christ, that still hurt. The younger boy had told him in an unapologetic tone that his best friend had left. The light changed, and Matt let his car move almost blindly, staring at the figure ahead in absolute dejection. There were not words to describe how deeply it had cut him to hear a lame excuse, recited in a voice tainted with sarcasm, about how it was better that they not see each other again, because things were going to change and he wasn't sure how much. There'd been a hidden warning there, and Near had heard it, too…just as plain as day, and he'd had no problem passing it on. Matt likened it to his accident. In the space of a few moments, some vital piece of his reality just up and fucking vanished. Mello was gone, and that seemed to be the end of it. He'd had the gall to walk out without a word, after everything they done to and for each other, and he'd heard it from Near first.

From fucking Near.

Near, the one person in the world that Mello had honestly and truly hated. The one person in the world that understood Mello better than Matt did, and whatever his private revelations were, he damn sure wasn't going to enlighten the idiot's best friend, oh no. There wasn't a shot in hell that Matt would ever discuss _Mello_ with _Near_, because…that would be _sharing_. Mello wouldn't forgive that. So while yes, he answered the bastard's questions, while he would make light conversation about the state of his friend's health and current interests, they would never discuss the _real_ Mello. The child that they'd both studied together and apart, alongside each other in a constant competition for his attention. Fucking Near wanted his hatred, wanted everything that Mello was willing to offer, because he'd been just as starved as Matt himself.

Matt's defining moment with Near was the day in the library, when Near finally clued him in to what was so different about Mello. What made him strange, made him _scared_ and what had unintentionally shaped his destiny into the boy they both knew. It was fucking Near that figured it out, just like it was fucking Near that looked him in the eye and told him that there wasn't a real reason for him not getting a goodbye. That Mello just fucking up and left because he was scared, and he wasn't thinking clearly…it had been Near that, once again, spelled it out in so many words…that he knew Mello _better_.

Because somehow, Mello let _him_ closer than he had Matt. Somewhere along the line, Mello had decided that Near was worth the effort of hatred. Matt had just kind of happened, but Near had been a decision on Mello's part. There was no other way to explain it, and it cut him so fucking deeply to think about it now, because Christ, it wasn't fair. Near had done nothing to earn his friendship, much less anything as strong his hatred. Hatred was a hair-line from love, and just as powerful…though after the fact, when Mello was no longer acting as an over-protective, loud, dangerous buffer, Matt learned rather quickly that Near was an easy person to hate.

So fuck Near, and his common sense. In reality, it was Near that had told Matt, quite simply, that he was making a mistake in following Mello out. It was Near, quite simply, that talked him into staying to finish out his degree before he took off and murdered the catholic bastard. It was Near, in the end, that knew them both better than either cared to admit. It also Near, however, that in the end told him that he'd been _wrong_. It was Near that confessed to being wrong all along, and practically shoved him from the orphanage.

Without even realizing what he was doing, he veered out of his lane and cut across the two opposing to get into the church parking lot. He parked, though whether he made the box was a coin toss. He could hardly see straight at this point, so it didn't fucking matter, either.

He didn't glance down as he got out, again, feeling a rush of anger and pain at the surprising stability the brace afforded his gimp knee. He heard the roar of Mello's motorcycle somewhere up the street, but he found his gaze drawn to the leaves falling from the trees in the courtyard instead. The wind whipped his hair around, and in the scent of coming rain, his cigarette smoke seemed almost blasphemous. He wasn't sure what he was here for.

He just felt lost.

Staring up at the stained glass, framed on either side by trees, he wondered how anything could seem so warm in light of what he was going through…what he was _forcing_ himself through. How could anything, anything at all, be that inviting when the world itself seemed to stab him in the back whenever he turned around? He stood in the door of his car for a moment, listening to the wind echo through the bell in the tower. His hand tightened slowly on the door's frame as something within him stirred to life, a long dead remnant of something he'd locked away. Mello's voice had lulled him back into this state occasionally during their time at Wammy's, but now…now he needed this. Faith, religion, fucking something….anything…to go right….

He needed something to believe in.

Another addiction to fill his holes.

The thought almost sent him scrambling back into his car, left him completely devastated as he realized that this could just be his sick, depraved soul reaching for another fix, another answer. He realized that somehow, this could just be another hoax, another poison he'd have to wean himself off of later.

After all, look at what it did to Mello.

Mello.

Fuck, he really needed something to believe in, because his Mello was dead. He didn't know the stranger on the bike, not like he used to anyway, and he couldn't read him. Mello was no longer an open book…he wasn't even Mello anymore. There wasn't a chance of seeing that person again. He never did get a goodbye.

He let him go.

Matt had let him go, and by the time he'd caught up again, Mello…_Mihael,_ was dead and gone.

So much murder.

He needed something to believe in, or he was going to go insane. He needed a grip on reality before he lost it completely, because he was alone again, and he'd sworn to himself that that would never happen. He'd grown up alone. He'd had a friend, and now…now he could never go back to that blissful ignorance of not knowing what it meant to care for another person. He'd loved Mihael, in his own way. He'd been the most important thing in Matt's short life, and Matt was having a hard time convincing himself that he could accept the changes not just in Mello, but in himself as well.

He didn't know who it was that shut the door of his car and went stumbling, drunk with desperation and despair, up the steps of St. Mary's. He didn't have a fucking clue.

But, he'd killed someone, this person. This person had murdered a man in cold blood, a helicopter pilot with a rat's face and greasy hair. This person had allowed their best friend to follow some twisted logic and become someone else instead of being there to guide them and sort through the shit that they were dealing with. This person had, worst of all…killed himself.

In a form of silent suicide, Matt had killed Mail Jeevas, and was slowly poisoning himself now. His hands hovered over the huge, wooden door's handle in a terrified moment of indecision. Suicide…a mortal sin.

What if he wasn't welcome here?

What if, in the end, this was nothing but another dead end?

Matt wasn't sure if he could handle that. Suicide might become more than just a mental war with himself, a modification of his soul…it could become very real. People mocked and joked about suicide. They approached the topic with the same glassy-eyed stare that they did a handicapped man (his _knee_, his fucking _knee_), and they didn't know how to handle it. They feared it, and worse…they considered it a moment of weakness, something to be scorned.

Christ, _they'd_ never been this low.

They couldn't have tasted the sheer bitterness that coated his tongue at that moment. They couldn't have known what it meant to have a soul so stained that it was unrecognizable. They didn't know what it meant to question one's identity only to realize that in the end, it wasn't one worth having. Suicide was not weakness, it was desperation. It was despair in its rawest, deadliest form, because in that second of hesitation, Matt knew what it meant to have nothing to live for. He knew what it meant to have no hope, to be so far lost in his own heartache that there wasn't light at the end of the tunnel, and there wasn't a chance in hell that the downward spiral would end.

They didn't know…but Matt sure as hell did.

So let them talk. Let them whisper and shake their fucking heads; they didn't have a God damned _clue_.

If he wasn't accepted here…if they couldn't have him here…he had nothing else.

Perhaps Mello wasn't as lucky as Matt thought. Perhaps he'd just skipped all the foreplay and gotten fucked from the beginning. Perhaps it was less painful that way, because Matt knew now what it meant to be at the receiving end of God's joke. He knew now what it meant to have the devil in his ear, at his side and holding his hand.

…But somehow, through the grace of God, or pity from the Fates, his hand touched the cool metal handle, and he took a deep breath.

He didn't know what he needed…but he wasn't ready to stop looking yet.

He pushed, and the door swung inward.


	15. In the Rain

AN- Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here, after two months of nothing from an inconsiderate author.

I put in my two week's notice and I'm FREE! Whooooo! (happy dance) So, now that I have some free time, and Shades is Done...Morning is my baby. Yus, indeed, my poor angsty boys.

My beta is out of town for the week, so don't expect anything else until she gets back, BUT...I do plan to keep writing while she is gone. Who knows? Maybe she'll come back to three chapters in her inbox.

I don't know.

But I'm about to find out. Muahahah.

It's short but there's more coming. Kani's got her muse back.

XXXX

Mello pulled his helmet off and stared up at the window as the rain began to fall. It came slowly, whispering through the leaves as though the angels themselves were waiting for the coming confrontation. The glass beckoned, depicting the tree of Life and the damned Serpent in the Garden. The light imbued the colors with a life-like glow, until Mello, still astride his purring motorcycle, began to wonder if God himself was watching through the Serpent's crimson eyes. His foot eased the kickstand down.

Rain spotted the concrete, coming slowly to the desert. The scent of water and hot sand rose from the warm stone as it fell, and Mello's hair began to dampen. The wind blew it back, out of his face, and he glanced to the side at Matt's car for a moment. The hacker's system still remained in the back seat, and his driver's door hadn't been closed all the way. This hadn't been a planned stop, then.

With a heavy sigh, he pressed the kill switch, and his engine died, letting the sound of rain and wind fill the moment's silence. Matt was somewhere in the church, and Mello had no idea how long he was going to be there. Tucking the helmet into his bag, he swung off and stepped onto the sidewalk, his boots quiet on the concrete. He paused at the stairwell, and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops as he regarded the stone before him. At the moment he dared go no further.

Wind echoed forlornly through the tower bell, a solemn tone that reached for him as no other ever had. It was a low murmur beneath the rain, a sound to call the angels to order, perhaps…the voice of God, if he dared. He stood for a long moment, staring at the window's serpent as though at any moment it would begin to talk to him, and if he were honest with himself, he was terrified of what it had to say. Thoughts torn between past and present, he wondered idly what lay beyond these doors…the monastery chapel, perhaps, taken straight from his nightmares. Would he cross the threshold to find the statue of Christ he'd knelt before all those years ago? He hovered at the edge of holy ground and honored the line drawn years ago, as tangible as a seam in his heart, a line of scarring that could not be undone.

Matt had something on his mind. That didn't mean that Mello had to come here and wait… and regardless of whatever inner strength he was drawing from to approach the church, he'd felt a lot more secure on his bike.

Nostalgia pulled at his soul, tugging at the tatters of his heart like the faded memories it was bred from. He couldn't help but remember, staring up the stone steps with an unadulterated longing. Once, long ago, he'd had peace with his religion. Where he couldn't find it anywhere else, it had come from the bible, from the word and the sacrament. It meant something to him once, and perhaps it was the just proof of how fucked up he really was that, standing here, presented with it after he'd turned away, he still found himself craving it. He wanted that peace, that sensibility, that…_completeness_ that religion offered.

He wanted his bible back. He wanted to sit on the window sill of his room at Wammy's and read by the light of the setting sun. Even then, when he'd been unhappy, hollow and broken, scared of everything, at least he'd felt complete. If he allowed himself to believe his own delusions, they hadn't really _taken_ anything from him at the monastery…if he really wanted, he could rebuild his entire life around his denial. He could pretend that he was a normal person, exist alongside everyone else and through his sheer strength of will, he could ignore the nagging doubts that underlay his every thought.

That, however, would be what _they_ had expected of him…to accept it as truth and live beneath their shadow, even when he knowingly cast it aside. That would vindicate the bastards and justify their sins, and Mello would not give them pleasure, not even from half a world away. Let them rot in hell, because they'd taken _a lot_ from him. They'd stolen his innocence before he'd even known what the word meant. They'd broken into his thoughts and made themselves a part of his life…and they branded his soul so deeply, that even here, now, in the wake of all that he'd become, the blessed peace of repentance and the holy word still morbidly appealed to him. God had taken him from a place of peace and taught him to find it in a one where peace didn't exist.

The weight of the crucifix over his heart was mocking him, and for a brief second he swore he heard Christ's laughter in the rain.

It wasn't worth it. That was the mantra he adopted as he tried to lift his foot and put it on that first stone step. It seemed a massive undertaking, that one simple movement. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes…and as his muscles tensed and failed to lift even his boot from the concrete, he tried very hard to believe it. He remained paralyzed in his place, praying that in the end, he could hold onto his notion that the church and its illusions meant nothing to him…not now.

He no longer felt welcome here, in the house of God, and he feared that that one step, the one that placed him on holy ground…would break him.

It shouldn't have mattered.

At one point in time, the church had been the foundation of his life, his very creed and standard. There was assurance, solid footing, and strength in the church, a kind strength that he lacked himself.

Standing here now, closer than he'd been in ten years to his damnation, he wasn't sure what he felt. There was the unabashed ache in his chest, a need that he felt all the way to his toes. It called to him, the ordered structure and simplicity of atonement. He knew he would find solace there again, should he give up…give up….

Give up _what_, exactly?

The rain fell, but he thought that maybe God wasn't laughing anymore.

XXXX

Hours passed in the rain. Minutes, hands of time moving in the background, and all he had to mark them with were the silent exchanges between his heart and a stained glass window. It wasn't a petty reflection of his life so much as a conscious look at his scars…an attempt to see himself as a whole person and not the shadows that they'd left him. For the first time, it wasn't a matter of working around what he'd become, but in truth, becoming something more than he'd initially surmised. The various bits and pieces of his reality coming together to mimic a life of some sort; a hazardous, questing balance that guaranteed nothing but its own instability. It wasn't something he was proud of.

Perspective had come from the strangest places over the course of his life. For Mello, it was the small things…Rodger offering his hand in companionship though he knew it wouldn't be accepted, Near honestly apologizing to him in the library for revealing his secret. Things like the way Matt never spoke about the past, because he truly believed that it had nothing to do with the future, or the way he learned when to talk and when to just share Mello's company. Now, he found it came from the bottom step of the churchyard, trapped by his need to lay blame. For the first time, he was not staring down the stone stairs and wondering what lay beyond, nor was he watching them from afar and wondering how he'd ever hoped to survive away from them. Standing at their base, he instead wondered just where he was going from there. Hope wasn't the word…it didn't sit well in his thoughts. Acceptance, perhaps, that a future existed would better describe it. Despite the fact that his days were numbered, and he could surmise nearly the month of his possible death, he was finally taking a moment to consider the days between the then and now.

And when put into perspective…it was incredibly short.

Staring into the serpent's eyes, he found himself not hollow, not broken…but misguided. It seemed even Satan knew of his tasks…and the dim glow in the crimson glass spoke of patience. In due time, the rain whispered.

Then Matt stepped between them.

He looked up at the hacker, still rooted to his spot at the base of the sidewalk, and the words seemed to fall from his lips, unguided and pointless. "I used to believe… that the stars were the source of enlightenment. It was only at night that God inhaled, breathed evenly like the rest of us as he watched us sleep. I believed we should pray to him then, because he was more willing to listen than when he worked."

Matt's brow furrowed, uncomprehending. Mello turned his eyes to the clouded sky again, raising his voice to be heard over the steady water falling. "I was a child, and foolish enough to believe that God himself listened to us at night and not…not the Virgin Mary, as I was taught. I was selfish. I wanted _his_ attention, if only for a few hours, and I wanted him…to see me. My window was tiny at the time…but I still thought…I thought that God was in the stars."

Mello paused and licked his lips. "…It seems to rain a lot now."

"I'm sorry." The words came from nowhere, and Mello felt himself withdraw at the sentiment. When had anyone met him and _not_ been sorry at some point? "For what I did to you, I'm sorry."

Mello's eyes returned to meet his, head tilted slightly to the side as though hearing something in the distance. "I…feel like I can't reach you…when you're way up there."

Matt stared down the seven steps between them, confused. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah." Mello licked his lips, eyes still a little vacant. "I just…can't reach you."

"I don't understand."

Mello closed his eyes and seemed to regain himself, bringing a hand up to push his hair back. For a moment, his gaze wandered the stone in front of him, searching for his words on the damp concrete. "You ran to the Church."

"…Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

"I…don't know."

To run from _him_, Mello's mind whispered harshly. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He licked the edge of his teeth in thought, lifting his eyes to Matt's again. In the dark, Matt's eyes were almost black, and it was hard to believe that they were the same pair that trapped him so mercilessly against a door, mere hours ago. The remorse he found there now seemed weak in comparison. He didn't mean to sound so condescending.

…But he did. "And did you find everlasting salvation, Mail Jeevas?"

Matt pulled his goggles down, then off, to hang around his throat. Mello watched the motion, and thought that perhaps a shadow of the person he used to be still existed…because he felt inexplicably guilty for asking Matt that question. It wasn't his place.

"I don't want to talk about it."

It rained for a few minutes…quietly, in the background of their thoughts. He was aware of it curling through his hair to the skin below, slipping beneath his collar to dampen his shirt, but it no longer existed as an entity. Whatever they'd come here seeking was slipping away by the minute. Whatever had whispered in his ear beneath the rainfall and crimson glass was gone.

Matt met his eyes again, and Mello thought that perhaps it was best to let it go. "Fair enough."

"We'll never talk about it, will we? Any of it?" His hair was black in the water too…plastered to his head, dripping past his ears.

Mello just shook his head. Matt's lips quirked as though to grin, but his eyes never moved to match it. The expression died before it was complete.

"That would mean…," Matt paused, wiping the rain from his face as he collected his thoughts. "…That we'd have to fix it."

"Yeah."

And Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair as he turned his face to the sky. Mello watched the line of his throat and how the rain hit it, and thought himself less than human for daring such a thing now…but Matt's eyes were closed. Mello thought that if the serpent had stayed a bit longer, he'd have laughed.

Silence seemed to be becoming a second language between them. It was a rarity, to find things best left unsaid. It seemed to make up the majority of their dynamic, and Mello was hopeless to understand where they were going from here.

The hacker muttered finally, "…Okay. I get it now."


	16. In the Quiet

Oh my god. Hello? Anyone still here? It's an UPDATE!

The last few months have been hell. Just...hell. I'm in college, my time is short and my financial situation is...debatable. However, my interenet IS back on, and here's a chapter for you. It's been cut in half, and the second part is going to have another polish because I'm nervous posting without my beta.

I'm off Hiatus, however, my beta is not. Apparently she's been just as busy as I am, and like her, so please bear with me and send her good will while she sorts out the new things in her life. The second half will be up soon.

Also, I have found something amazing. I added a space between 'diary' and ".ru" in the link below.

static.diary. ru/userdir/6/2/6/8/626821/29882992.jpg

But this is a picture, drawn by one of my Russian readers, that illustrates chapter 10. I don't know who you are, but you're amazing, and I'd love to see more of your work.

...I hope you're still here. I'm glad to be back, and I hope you can forgive. My update will resume, but the timeframe is anyone's guess. Thank you all.

Step Lightly,

Mikanis

XXXX

They didn't speak. They never had, if Matt cared to think back to when they were boys, sharing company at three in morning while one studied and the other played. He didn't, however, and merely marked that the early hour was a quiet one. In light of the evening that preceded it, it was better left that way. The silence didn't make him comfortable, but that was nothing new either…silences between the two were more common than words. They seemed to have reached a point of stasis that didn't require too much communication. Personally, he found it a little fucked up that they could go so long without speaking. He'd said nothing during the drive however, only parked when Mello pointed him into a lot. Even when Mello opened the passenger door and the scent of rain flooded the cabin, he didn't think to ask where they were or where he was going. As the minutes passed after that, alone, he found it fucked up indeed that he had nothing to say. Men saving the world should have something to talk about.

Men.

He wasn't sure when he'd begun to think of himself as a man. He'd tried to remember himself at Wammy's while in the church, and felt more detached from that boy than he ever had in his life. It was as though a completely new person had somehow attained that child's memories and wore a crude mask of his face.

Then Mello crossed his mind, and he thought that maybe the changes in himself weren't as great as those in the gunman.

Then again, maybe the quiet was just getting to him.

He was soaked, and fast becoming cold. The finer points of his mentality shuddered in revulsion at the feel of damp cotton sticking to his skin, and the scent rising from the fabric made him cringe. He needed a shower. He needed dry clothes, a hit, and another cigarette. Maybe some rum to round his evening out, but he knew without question that that truly was wishful thinking. Of his needs, he had only one that was readily available.

…And as he flipped the pack open, he realized he had exactly four of those left.

Cussing at this point seemed a waste of breathe. He settled for closing the box and shoving it into the car's ashtray to keep it from the damp of his jean's pocket. The last thing he needed tonight was damp tobacco that wouldn't light when he needed it to. Rain continued falling outside his windows, and the desert dust that once marred his windshield had been long cleared away. He sat staring at the car in the space across from him and wondered at his own parking job. Christ knew, he could hardly see straight. He'd had nothing to eat in a day or so, and not much since his last run in with withdrawal symptoms. They inspired a pain in his stomach that ruined any thought for food for days after. Even now, his tongue curled at the thought of eating.

The weakness in his movement was scaring him, however. He chalked it up to lack of sleep and his drug, but the blithe stiffness that pervaded his every twitch gave his entire situation a new perspective. Mello would be expecting a lot from him, and soon. Before this minor explosion, he'd even been talking about hacking the White House. That was serious shit. The drug might be well and good for his coding work, but hacking required him to be sober enough to respond to the slightest hitch in the electronic feed. They were dealing with governments now, he reminded himself, not petty house locks designed to keep him entertained.

He needed to eat. It was another bullet on the long list to his peace of mind.

…And if Mello didn't hurry up, Matt was going to sleep in the car.

No sooner had the notion crossed his mind than the door opposite him opened up. Matt didn't have the energy to jump, and gave silent thanks that it was Mello that slipped into the bucket seat next to him, because if it'd been anyone else, he'd have been a dead man without a fight.

Mello gave him a sharp look for his lack of response, but Matt shifted the cigarette in his fingers and said nothing. The gunman handed off a plastic key card and then peered into the backseat. His frown said travel lightly, so Matt resolved to drag the army bag out of the backseat and leave the rest. He wondered if he'd ever be settled enough unpack the entirety of his system again. Considering that it was his sole accomplishment so far in his adult life, the thought made him depressed as hell.

Fuck, the rain was cold.

He didn't remember moving from the driver's seat, but here he was, pulling the huge bag up over his shoulder like his cross. It weighed as much as one, all sarcasm aside. He turned around and paused for a minute to stare at the skyscraper he was presented with. Strategically placed neon lighting made the glass front glisten in the rain, but he'd hardly noticed the building itself when they'd pulled in. He had to crane his head to see where it ended and the sky began. It was the type of building that made one question one's self-worth, and that was a question that he was heartily sick of for the night.

The lobby was brightly lit, but what it lacked in invitation, it made up for in warmth at least. He'd decided before they even reached the door that he wasn't going to make eye contact with anyone if he could avoid it, and that left him little to look at but the polished marble floor. High ceilings and modern furniture passed in his peripheral vision as abstract shapes and colors. There was a fountain in the center of the room. His jeans were dark with water, and dripped with his every step. In a moment of paranoia, he glanced behind himself and realized that he was leaving dark shoeprints across the marble flooring…grime from the parking lot and ash from his floor mat. He made the mistake of looking up in time to see a man in a suit sneer after the trail.

Limping slightly despite the brace, he turned tail and ran before the man had a chance to meet his eyes. Better that he didn't find out what expression he warranted from the privileged people…never mind the fact that he could likely run circles around the fool's I.Q..

Mello was either oblivious to his stress, or honestly didn't care. Matt had a chance to see him turn around expectantly in the elevator, one hand stalling the door. It made him pause. Mello was just as soaked as he was, just as the business man staring after Matt would be once he stepped outside. It was raining in the desert. Mello, in his boots and leather, made this suddenly seem completely normal. Mello looked like he belonged here, with the sharp tilt of his chin and his arrogant shoulders. He looked bored, dangerous, and completely at ease in this glistening tribute to the successful entrepreneur.

The fact that he was waiting for _Matt_ while he tugged a damp glove off with his teeth made the hacker want to hold his head up again.

So he did, and when he finally turned to see the sneer on the man's face, just as he'd expected, he returned the sentiment and flipped him off as the doors slid shut.

The nonchalance in Mello immediately devolved from arrogance to something more along the lines of exhaustion. Matt took a moment to appreciate the fact that in the two months they'd been working together, he'd never seen his partner this tired.

Partner…his mind hesitated at the word, but refused to replace it with 'friend' or anything like it. Partner was the best he could do.

Regardless, Mello leaned against the hand rail and didn't move again. Matt was tempted to put his bag down, but knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to lift it again. The thought of asking Mello to carry it was appealing, but the lost trust between them was still a raw wound and in all honesty, the gunman looked just as ready to fall over as Matt himself did.

The doors slid open around the third floor and Matt was grateful that they didn't have far to go. The building had at least twenty floors, and the idea of his shower being much further away gnawed at his mind like a cancer. He was fast approaching a stage where he couldn't function, and the slow, calculating parts of his mind riled against the very idea.

He didn't remember being lead down the hall and into the suite, and the first thought he had once he came back from the corners of his mind was that his knee hurt. At this point, he wasn't sure he could stomach swallowing his drug by mouth again, and resolved to take his dose and hide it beneath the acrid bite of vodka. The next thought in his head was that Mello was blocking the door to the bathroom and talking to him.

It took a moment for the words to come into focus.

"You can shower later. You need to sleep."

That was all Matt bothered to register before nodding carefully, and then shoving past the gunman to the bathroom. He locked the door and half stumbled to turn the water on.

Fuck Mello.

It took a while for the water to heat up. He stripped as quickly as he could. The brace came off with a hiss of pain that was hidden beneath the roar of the water, but it was one less thing between him and sleep. The water had become an absolute…there would be no sleep until he was clean. Had he been awake enough to be irritated with Mello for not understanding that, he would have forgiven him the second the last stitches of his clothing fell to the ground and he stepped into the stall. The water hadn't warmed completely, and the cool shock between his shoulder-blades woke him to an acceptable state of mind. He was awake enough to bathe at least. The hotel bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash had been left upon the counter, but a quick, damp dive into the space outside the shower stall put them in his hand. He'd just have to remember the floor was wet when he stepped out afterwards. Probably should have put a towel down anyway. A little late now, he supposed.

There wasn't enough of any of the amenities to suit him, not nearly enough. He could have forgone sleep altogether in favor of the hot, _blissfully_ hot shower and the opportunity to forget himself in the simple act of restoring the order. He washed the oil, smoke, and rain from his hair harshly, letting his nails bite the scalp in his efforts. He washed the dust and almost, it seemed, the weight of the last few hours from his person, and felt himself whole. When his nails, all of them, were white again, and his knee ached dully in the steam, he sat upon the stall floor and refused to think.

That was the first time he fell asleep; an hour and a half that marked his first rest since Mello drugged him in the living room floor over a day ago.

He woke when the shower ran cold, and his knee screamed in protest. Then again, perhaps it was Mello beating on the door that pulled him from his rest, but there was water in his ears, and a fine trail of goosebumps down his spine that said he'd been in there longer than he'd anticipated. He cut the water off and told Mello that he was awake, and fine. The second the sentence left his mouth, he forgot it. It was impossible to recall the words he'd just spoken.

This, _this_, his mind screamed, was dangerous. The state of being where the only functioning thoughts his mind could process were the many steps it took to get to bed and from there to sleep. He crawled out of the shower and donned his damp jeans, confident that he'd forgotten to grab his dry change of clothes before coming into the bathroom.

He paused when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair, usually dark red, was nearly black and hung heavily about his ears. Matt couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hair cut. His eyes were bloodshot and almost gaunt with stress…even his freckles seemed diminished.

It took a minute to realize just what was off about his reflection. Earlier he'd thought of himself as wearing a mask of the boy from Wammy's, a crude reproduction of Mail's face and mannerisms. After all that he'd been through in the last few years, he supposed he'd expected a greater change. In mourning for that boy, he'd almost convinced himself that the differences would be visible when he next dared to look in the mirror.

There were differences, true…but merely the marks of age, highlighted by his exhaustion. He supposed what bothered him was that he looked exactly the same…just like himself. There was a heavy, oppressed look to his eyes, but that was nothing new. He'd been told that since the day Mello left without a word.

However, it almost irritated him to know that the new weight on his shoulders wasn't more visible. He felt cheated of the small vindication that was he was doing was important, that it was unfair the physical scars didn't match the ones on his personality.

Matt was no longer in control of his life or where it was headed, and the thought was at once humbling and terrifying. He knew now what it meant live with the knowledge that nothing he did would alter the course of his future. Just as Mello believed himself damned, Matt was coming to understand that he would likely die doing this. Mello had spent most of his life torn between the belief that it wasn't fair and that he might be wrong …and eventually, he outright defied the idea, by walking away from his religion. So he claimed, at least.

But unlike Mello, Matt knew that walking away only turned his back to the problem. It allowed him to hide from his choices until the last possible moment, when they shot him in the back with reality. He already knew what it meant to have his walls broken and the bitterness he'd hidden away pulled to forefront of his memories like a festering wound. The helicopter had ripped his strength away because it was something that he'd denied, something that he'd refused to acknowledge. His subsequent breakdown was a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

Even with the entire situation put into perspective, Matt still wasn't sure what drove him to hunt Mello down after he left, nor why he stayed. There seemed to be a chain between the two that no amount of prayer or common sense could shake. Even if he wasn't sure of what they were doing, he already knew without question that he would finish it out, one way or the other. Just as Mello knew that one day he would die, and there would be a hell waiting.

But knowing the truth of something and accepting it were two very different things.

…And when he looked in the mirror, he saw of more of Mello in himself than he ever had before.

Then he caught himself thinking again, and resolved to stop. He understood, and that was enough for now. He could fix the backward logic later, when it wasn't trying to kill him.

The hot water had relaxed tensions he hadn't known existed, and he felt almost drunk as he strapped the brace on again and headed out of the small room. He didn't remember moving across the suite to the bedroom, but as he sank onto the mattress, he realized that his drug was on the other side of the apartment and despite what he _thought_, he wasn't going to go get it.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until the sound of the door closing woke him.

For a moment, at least.

XXXX

By the time the lobby elevator closed, the blood on his gloves was partially dry. It left a dark smear on the plastic button that would take him up to the loft, where Rod was waiting. The metallic scent, his own sweat, and the rain made a ghastly combination in the small room, his body heat warming the air to make it that much more oppressive. The sensation of being lifted did nothing to settle his nerves, and he leaned upon the handrail as though his legs could no longer support him.

Two men lay dead in his old apartment tonight…and a third in his car, in the far corner of the parking lot. He was able to shoot that one without creating too much noise, but he really needed to limit his use of his silencer. The barrel had begun to wear down and make faint popping noises, and with his relationship with Rod taking a spiral, it would difficult to get another one cheaply. Mello rested his head back against the wall and stared at the steel-paneled ceiling overhead, wondering if Matt was awake yet. He'd already been gone longer than he intended to be, and if the hacker called him anytime-

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the power button.

He couldn't afford to fuck this up, or worse, let Matt do it for him. The men Rod sent were amateurs, and he counted himself undeniably lucky for it. The more experienced of the three stayed behind to keep watch, and after that initial bullet, the other two murders were surprisingly easy. It meant that Rod wasn't taking him as seriously as he should, but that worked to Mello's advantage for now. The fact that the man had sent _anyone_ said that he was in trouble, but he knew that if the men waiting for him had been of better standing within the family, he wouldn't have survived tonight. He was fairly sure that he was approaching his physical limit. He'd had four hours of sleep in the last two days, and nothing but chocolate to eat in twice that. Matt's condition was a dramatic echo of his own body's trauma. With the hacker passed out at the hotel, Mello's situation would soon be approaching dire. Even now, faint hunger pains shivered through his stomach, unpleasant, but not something that he was unaccustomed to.

The monastery, however, was almost a decade in his past, and they'd never pushed him so close to his physical extremes. They'd only been trying to drive him insane, not kill him. Everything he'd been through in the last four days...in the last _week_, had been taxing, and more so than any repentant fasting could ever be. The slightest imperfection, the first hint of weakness in his body, could be the fracture in a structure of fine crystal. It would snowball, and grow, until one day he would wake up, and he wouldn't be able to regain what he'd lost. Eventually, he knew, he would push himself so hard that he would never be able to attain his current physical prowess again.

However, he was just using this body, he told himself, to accomplish something greater than just getting up the next morning.

The floors ticked inexorably by, and there was a ragged edge to his thoughts that he was unaccustomed to. Exhaustion crept in like a black void in the corners of his mind, tearing away at his conscious thoughts until he felt he'd found a wall within himself. On one side of it was the fear, the instinct to survive that forced him to keep walking, to move until the pieces were in a safer position. On the other, there was the sweet bliss of nothing, the lure of a full stomach and sleep, and the basic needs that his obsessive genius had raped and cast aside in favor of his current endeavors. In the forefront of his mind, he knew, there was order and structure. In the front of his thoughts, he had to reach an agreement with Rod, had to cut a deal before he could ever dream of settling into one place for longer than a few hours again. If this talk didn't go well, he'd only have to drag Matt to another hotel the second he left. In the _back_ of his mind, however, the place where he carried his plans and his superfluous trains of thought, the place that was always working, even when he _slept_, had finally shut down. He'd come to a point where it was no longer possible to maintain it. His mind was completely blank save for this implanted notion of dealing with the devil on the top floor. His heart was numb because of Matt and murder, his soul was numb because he'd been digging at it so frantically in the last few hours, and now even his mind had begun to fail him.

He needed sleep.

He needed food, and sleep.

…But for the first time in as long as he could remember, Mello was honestly too numb to be paranoid. As he rested against the wall and let the aches and pains of his body sing so _humanly_ that he resented them, he knew what it meant to function like a normal person for once. There was always the abstract chatter of his brain before, the constant awareness of a mind equipped to take in far more than it could process in an instant. To be this tired after years of soldiering on was like being thrust into a sudden silence. Any thought that he carried and sustained in its wake felt like a raised voice in the instant that a crowd quiets. It was obsessively intrusive, with each stroke of order that went into his plan of the conversation screaming into the caverns of his psyche until he felt them like hammers against that damn wall within it. One foot in front of the other became his mantra.

If Mello had to swear on it, he'd say it was only the scent of the blood that kept him awake for the minute and half it took to get out of the elevator.

XXXX


	17. Dealing with the Devil

AN- *twitch* Uh...I'm still alive. Still working...Beta is MIA, but I hope she's well. Here's the next part, and I'll be back soon!

By the way...I have no clue what kind of Gun Mello carries. Oo I really don't. Huh.

XXXX

The elevator opened directly into the loft area, a room that sprawled across the top of the skyscraper without apology for its grandeur. The elevator, bathroom and the stair-exit in one corner were the only doors in the room, all set along the same wall. Beyond that, to his left, a sheer line of windows overlooked the heart of the city. At night, when the smog wasn't so bad, he could see across the skyline to the edge of the grasslands and the mountain range in the distance. The glass half of the ceiling, when it was cleared of dust by the rain, allowed a full view of the sky and its stars, the moon often straying into the corners when the season was right. Tonight, aside from the occasional lightening, it was dim and the wind shook the panes. He knew that only a few hours to the East, the sun was already coming up over the horizon, but here they remained in the sacred hours of the early morning, prolonged and crystalline in the storm.

It was decorated with the indecipherable sense of style that accompanied stupid men with lots of money…if it looked expensive, it was bought, and room was made for it. The standard applied to everything from the lamps to the women that occasionally appeared on their arms. This was the 'Showroom', as Rod was fond of calling it, the place where they brought men when they planned to impress or intimidate them. It was a more public way of keeping the power centered in both the FBI and the Family's eyes. Granted, they had several other hideaways, most underground, in the belly of the city, but those were for the dealings that involved the bigger names and titles. Mayors and other city officials were less likely to be impressed by the Showroom, so there were darker corners scattered beneath the clubs they often frequented that served as their board and press rooms, places more suited to intimidating men of honest power. Mello himself had one that he preferred, beneath a dance floor in a dismal back alley not far from here. Its mantle was full of skulls and cheap Virgin Mary candles that he took a private delight in burning whenever he was there…the fallen wax had become a fixture of its own over the years.

The elevator doors began to close on him and he woke enough shove his musings aside and step out before being confined to the box again. The blood had seeped through the hems of his gloves and he felt it growing tacky in the curves of his fingers when he pulled away from the rail.

The fact that even with his frantic desire for fresh air beating at the line of his sanity, he had paused to admire the furniture was more than a little frightening. He was not in control of himself, in any sense of the word.

The air in the apartment held the uneasy, stale shift of current that meant the air-conditioner was off and had been for sometime, leaving the temperature to vary with the amount of light energy coming into the room. The stillness of it made his every breath seem exaggerated and loud in his own ears, his prickling paranoia rearing its head and then just lying down to die again. He was honestly too tired to give a damn if Rod was waiting for him with a gun. He only hoped he had the presence of mind to seem like himself in the face of such a threat, so that he could bleed out with a little dignity.

His eyes strayed unconsciously to the decorative tree across from the couch, where he'd installed Matt's camera. The hacker might be awake and watching, he knew, but with his phone off, he wouldn't be able to interfere in any way should a bullet be waiting for Mello at some point tonight. At least if Rod killed him here, Matt would have a way to know.

It struck him oddly, to think of Matt watching him die. The clamor of his unfinished tasks returned only briefly at the thought before receding to the darkness again. There was nothing comforting in the idea, if he were honest. He would not be dying with a close friend at his side…he wasn't romantic enough to turn something as simple as video footage into such a grand thing. No, he would just…die, and Matt would find out later. That'd be the end of it, to a degree. He wasn't even sure Matt would attempt to continue his work should something happen to him. The fact that he might not was morbidly depressing somehow.

He then realized he'd been staring at the floor during this entire thought process and cursed himself, glancing around the room for the first time.

The act of turning his head to the side and looking at the zebra-striped couch seemed an impossible effort at first. It was the small things that taxed him in this condition, with such miniscule wastes of energy, things that he wouldn't have blinked at hours ago, only serving to highlight his every weakness now. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and another for him to focus at any distance. He found the big man asleep on the couch, shirtless and spread eagled, for all appearances dead with half a bottle of Crown Royale hanging out of one fist. He was little more than a dark outline marring the zebra pattern in the grey glow of the city lights reflecting off of the storm clouds overhead. The Dom was alone tonight, which was unusual but not unwelcome. Mello considered taking a moment to think through the coming conversation again, but the elevator bell sounded behind him and the man woke up. Rod did not jump, but instead slid back to consciousness with his next breathe, every muscle stiffening slightly. Mello watched him drift back to himself like a swimmer coming up for air. Were it not for the bottle shifting slightly in his tightening grip, he'd have had no indication at all until the mercenary picked his head up and looked in his direction.

It was a talent that had probably saved the big man's life on more than one occasion.

Instead of ponder that, however, he focused on not swaying on his feet. The grey light fell across the man's dark shoulders and painted them blue, throwing the muscle and cords of his neck into sharp relief. Even the gold chain around his neck glinted silver. The two of them remained like that over the course of a few minutes, with only the wind whispering in the background again. After a moment or so, the rain picked up, tapping, and then knocking against the glass as though it wished to participate in the conversation… but neither of them answered.

Rod was surprised to see him alive. He wasn't stupid enough to pretend that nothing had happened, nor to insult Mello by asking how he'd survived. His men had either fucked up, or they wouldn't be coming back. It didn't necessarily mean that they were dead but considering it was Mello they'd been sent to dispose of, the odds were decidedly not in their favor. It was an acknowledged fact, then, that Mello was not here out of boredom or curiosity for once. When they regarded each other now, it was in the strictest sense of business men preparing to talk, because what little camaraderie they might have shared lay cooling just as surely as the corpses across town did. It put the situation into perspective at least.

Rod blinked, and took a deep breathe to clear the last of the sleep from his mind…then waved Mello over with the bottle.

So it began, he thought to himself as he forced his feet to move, and covered his heavy steps with something of a swagger. Better to appear slightly drunk, or perhaps crazy, than to appear weak in something this important. He had to get Rod to back off. Had to, or else Matt's involvement would lead to more deaths, and not results. One of the only reasons that Mello and Rod had worked so well together in the past was that Rod knew he was dealing with Mello, and Mello alone. The young detective masqueraded as a single-shot man with an iron fisted understanding of the economy and its inner workings. He could make, hide, and spend thousands of dollars over the course of a few hours, when presented with the proper tools. He was quiet, and intelligent, willing to make the Dom a very rich man if he would only pay attention…Rod wasn't one to waste such an opportunity. However, with this new person, this anonymous hacker backing the brains of the California mafia branch, Rod was inclined to get a little nervous, paranoid even. With Kira's killing tool in the palm of his hand, changes in the system went beyond paranoia and into the realms of betrayal, on sheer principle. Mello couldn't pull strings and take care of problems quietly anymore, and he knew that Rod knew it too. At this point in the game, the issue was either on the table or it was under it, and the latter was likely to get one killed.

Rod licked the edge of his teeth as Mello eased onto the couch across from him, his big, white smile almost glowing in the strange lighting. "What can I do for you?"

Mello adopted his usual sprawl, legs and arms wide over the fabric and head back as though he weren't sitting directly across from one of the most powerful men in the criminal industry. If Rod took offense to it, then fine…Mello wasn't particularly fond of abandoning thousands of dollars worth of high grade chemical explosives because the Dom had an itchy trigger finger. He chose to ignore the question.

"C'mon Mello." Rod leaned forward, and the ripple of muscle that accompanied the action was…disconcerting. He reached for the cellphone on the table and tilted its screen towards him, frowning in the dark. "It's…hell, it's nearly four. What brings you in so early?"

"We had an agreement." Mello offered to the ceiling, unsure of whether or not he could pick his head up again. He managed, however, in time to see the gold chain fall back across his collar as the black man crossed his legs and scratched at the beard on his chin. Mello leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, gesturing with gloves that reeked of something copper and sweet. "That I would handle my end my way…and as long as things ran smooth, we were smooth. What happened to that?"

"Ain't nothing happened to that."

Mello met his eyes and shook his head slowly. Licking his lips, he reached and pulled the Velcro strap of his left glove open easily. As he started to peel it back from his skin, the scent struck him like a wave, each sticky patch of blood pulling at his stomach as surely as it did his skin. He managed to control his gag reflex while the leather curled away from the dark smears painted his long fingers, until it finally fell, laden with the life of another. Rod's lips tightened into a grimace, his grip on the Crown Royale shifting again. Mello clenched and released his fist a few times, every line and curve of his hand highlighted in exquisitely gory detail. "The hell it hasn't, Rod."

The black man took a deep breath, sighed, and amended carefully. "Ain't nothing happened that was any of my doing. You know that."

"Yeah. To a degree. But we can't fuck with this, Rod." Mello murmured quietly, tossing the heavy leather to the glass-top table between them. Rod curled his nose at it. "It's too late in the game for us to start this cat and mouse bullshit."

"Like I said, I ain't changed nothing, Mello. You're the one pulling shit behind my back, bringing in people that ain't got any business with me. We agreed to deal from the same side of table." Rod swirled the amber liquid in his bottle while he spoke, a nervous twitch that Mello didn't miss. "You're the one slipping people cards when I ain't looking. Can't blame me."

"I'll give you that." Mello offered carefully, pulling his other glove off to land beside its brother. He paused and took a deep breath, his crucifix hanging forlornly between his knees. "Rod, how deep is the contract?"

"You're looking to cut a deal because you managed to get off."

"I never said that."

"I'm not stupid."

"I never said that, either."

"No, but you _act_ it." Rod snapped, head lowered in his irritation. "I know you're smart Mello…hell, you could 'prolly run circles around any man I pitch at you, and we both know that. Why you want a deal?"

Mello closed his eyes, resisting the urge to rub them. This was going downhill…he needed to level out or this would end badly. He hadn't even bothered to check if the man was armed. The realization made him tense despite himself, but he refused to look now. It'd be too obvious, and it would show he was expecting a fight. The easiest way to begin and exchange of bullets was simply to wait for it to happen. He moved on. "I killed three men in my apartment tonight, Rod. One of them was a good man, and you're gonna have trouble explaining it to the boys unless, something big comes up."

"That's why you want a deal now. You got something big to offer me?"

"I'm not interested in calling off the hit, Rod. It can't go too deep, or I wouldn't be sitting here still. You'd kill me yourself if you really needed me gone. I know that." Mello leaned back, running a hand through his hair and immediately regretting it as the tacky blood on his palms snagged the pale strands. "What I want is to buy a man."

Rod cocked his head, gritting his teeth as he thought the offer over. It was a simple enough process…buying a man to do private work was not an uncommon thing. The practice originated in New York, back when the family was still strong as far as blood went. Buying a man insured that when using some young buck to do the dirty work, a doting uncle wouldn't raise hell should something happen to him. It was a simple exchange, often in the forms of gifts and favors and it mutually benefited the men involved. The younger man running the street got to make his name, and the older, more strategically placed gentleman had their business taken care of without sullying their title or political reputation. More commonly in modern times, it was a bid for privacy from the Dom, to deal with an internal affair using a man under his influence. The man tipped the bottle back and stared at him for a long moment, eyes as hard as black stone in the shadows. After a moment his spoke, his low baritone carrying in the silence.

"The contract was only three deep. Rio and the two boys with him… I hadn't expected to lose him, but you're not stupid either. Even if I'd called it off, he'd have been talking to the boys about it. I'm sorry he died, but I'm not sorry that he's dead."

Mello nodded, dropping his eyes. It made sense for Rod to put a man from his circle on the job, to see that it was done right. Had he not anticipated the hit, he still wasn't sure he'd have survived it, with a man like Rio in the mix. He'd been a good shot. Mello had just been lucky enough to spot the car before approaching the stairwell, and to quietly put a bullet in him. "That's good."

"You know," Rod began, sighing again, "I only put that hit out to see if you'd come back here and make it better. I needed to know that you respected me, you know? I like you, even if you're a little freaky for my tastes…you get shit done, and you do it well. You know how to defer without rolling over, make a name for yourself and keep your superiors above it. I'd hate to see the end of an arrangement so pretty."

"So would I. I'm out to get what I want…it doesn't matter to me who dies in the process."

"Like I said, a true man of the business."

"You dealing with me?" Mello asked bluntly, too tired to keep skirting the subject. He needed to get out of here before he passed out in such a vulnerable location.

Rod glanced at his whiskey and back at Mello. "Shot or bullet?"

"Bullet." Mello moved to the edge of the couch, face blank as he pulled the .45 Colt from the holster at his belt and set it on the table. Another traditional method of dealing between the men of mafia was the act of swearing on a shot of alcohol or a favorite weapon. It was a throwback to the days when gangsters still considered themselves gentlemen. To swear on a shot was much like a toast, a drink to a business deal for the politician and the string-pullers…it was usually used in the case of monetary exchange or minor extortions. The tradition was woven into another from the men in the alleys, the enforcers and street runners that made up the shadows of the big cities. For them, offering the favorite weapon, or the gun of highest value, was a symbol of loyalty to the Dom receiving the gift. It was used to swear in the younger blood, because if the Dom accepted the firearm and then returned it, it was considered the acceptance of its services instead. These days, to swear over a gun was to offer up a service in exchange for a grant or favor. These two traditions were born purely in New York, instead of being reminiscent of the old Italians…the exchange of services and goods went much smoother when the grandeur of it all was reduced to a simple table and a face-to-face conversation. Mello set the pistol down, the saint charms attached to its grip clinking on the glass. He planned to swear 'bullet' and exchange the use of a man for an exchange in service.

"You got something for me?" Rod countered, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.

"You have a brother in the state penitentiary outside Monroe, in Louisiana."

"Yeah. How'd you know about him?"

"From what I understand, you don't give a damn about him, but you consider his name on the sex offender's register to be insulting."

"It's bad for business in the South…he had some nice assets until he got himself caught." Rod shook his head. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

"Hear me out. That brother was your arms dealer until he went under, and the man we're dealing with now doesn't know what hell he's doing. We both know that." Mello braced his elbows on his knees again, a little more awake with the ideas in his head. "I can get us the funding we need with a single phone call. Guns, supplies, money, satellites, anything we want."

"How?"

"We have Kira's notebook. The rumors are already spreading that Kira was somehow involved in the plane jacking last week, why not use that to our advantage?"

"You shot that idea-"

Mello cut him off. "I shot the idea of using it on the _Family_ down, Rod. Why waste it on something we already have a standing in when we could turn it on the one thing we can't control? Why not use it on the government?"

Rod straightened. "That's insane."

"One phone call, Rod. To the president. He already knows…between the surveillance satellites and the men watching Kira, I guarantee you he knows it's here. He may not know what it is, but if we don't move first, someone else will. Besides, if we keep diverting funds to buy our equipment, another Cousin is going to notice and they _will_ ask questions. We don't need any more attention on the West Coast. I can get a line to the White House. I can talk to him directly."

"How you expect to pull that off and not bring this whole deal crashing down on our heads?"

"We need to move, start jumping bases regularly…and I need a man."

Rod gave him a level stare. "…You ain't talking about one of my men, are you?"

"No." Mello answered truthfully, opening his bloody palms over the table and meeting him squarely in the eyes. "I want to buy-in my hacker, Matt."

"You got a problem with Snyder?"

" Several. He's stupid, and he's sloppy. Matt works at my caliber."

There was a silence while Rod weighed the pros and cons of that. "Legitimate?"

"Up to you." Mello shrugged, "You let me buy him and he's on the table, not under it, and we can go back to the way things were."

"He expectin' to be paid?"

"Who isn't? I can handle it."

"No, the only man on my side is a man on my money, and even that man never sees my back. I'll give him half what I give you, flat rate."

"So it's a deal.

"…Just take your gun and get the hell outta my loft, man."


End file.
